


Saving Grace

by navigatio



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Casefiles, Drowning, Emotions, Friendship, Gen, Grieving John, Grieving Sherlock, John and Mary's baby, Sherlock's assumptions, breathing as metaphor, questionable motivations, treachery and deceit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-08-28 11:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 78,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8444512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navigatio/pseuds/navigatio
Summary: Mary is dead, drowned in the Cherwell, leaving behind a grieving John and baby daughter named Gracie. And then there's Sherlock, who has no idea how to help. Contains character death, 1 big case and 2 small cases, pointless sentiment, and, running through it all, an epic friendship between two blokes who really don't know how to talk about their feelings. 24 chapters total, each titled for a step in their convoluted grieving "process," because really, they have no idea how to go about this. COMPLETE!





	1. Shock

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: This is a very loooong story, and it's a bit of a dark ride, sorry/not sorry. Cross-posted on FFN under the same author name.
> 
> This story was beta'ed by the fabulous English Tutor. Without her, it would just be a bunch of dialogue without tags. I really appreciate her help! This story is so much better because of her input.
> 
> So without further ado, enjoy this heaping helping of character death, angst, ridiculous sentiment, one big case and a couple of smaller cases, and running through it all, an epic bromance (but not slash!) between two blokes who really really don't know how to talk about their feelings. OH, and I should mention that the timeline for the story is about 8 months after the Christmas special (which aired in December 2015 but should have been 2014 in the timeline of the show). John and Mary have a 7 month old daughter named Gracie.

 

 

 

**Chapter 1** : Shock

* * *

(27 July, 2015)

It started, as most cases do, with a text from Lestrade (of course, he didn't realize it was a  _case_  until much later). It was early on a Sunday; the sun was barely up, so Sherlock definitely wasn't.

It took a moment for his searching hand to find his mobile on the bedside table, and another for his bleary eyes to focus well enough to read the tiny, dancing words on the screen.

_John needs you. Come quickly. Marston Ferry Bridge._

Just like that, he was instantly awake, mind revving. John needed him, but Lestrade hadn't said why. Some sort of accident, perhaps? Was John injured? Probably not, or Lestrade would have had him meet them at hospital. Not dead. It would be difficult for John to need him if he were dead. Accused of some crime? Possibly. So how was he to "come quickly" to a location that was over a half-hour away by cab?

He texted back  **on my way**  and hurried out the door with shoes untied, still buttoning his shirt, scarf askew and coattails flying. The entire cab ride he was muttering to himself. Marston Ferry Bridge—out of the way place, could be a nice juicy murder. But if that were the case, why would John need him? He couldn't deduce on so little evidence! It was maddening. He sent Lestrade several texts demanding more information, but received only a curt  _you'll know when you get here_  in reply.

When he arrived at Marston Ferry Bridge, the first thing he spotted were the tyre tracks, black on the rain-slick pavement. They started at the curve several metres before the bridge and continued through the gray-brown mud at the side of the road, leading down the steep embankment toward the swollen river below. It had been raining steadily for days now, even though it was mid-summer, and the usually placid Cherwell had turned from timid Dr. Jekyll to raging Mr. Hyde, a voracious muddy-brown monster. It was still raining now, just a light drizzle that frizzed his hair and left an uncomfortable ring of moisture around his collar. Or maybe it was a cold sweat that was breaking out as he put the pieces together. Tyre tracks, car accident?  _Mary! No no no no. . ._

Slipping and sliding his way down the broken embankment, he got his first glimpse of the car and his stomach gave an unexpected lurch. Black Audi A3 hatchback, 2012 model. It was sitting on its wheels in the soft mud of the riverbank, but he deduced that it until recently had been resting on its roof at the bottom of the river, as the roof was caved in, unevenly, and caked with grayish-brown mud. The windscreen on the driver's side had been broken open from the inside, while the passenger side was shattered but intact. Streaky, slimy water dripped from every opening. All of these details registered and formed themselves into a picture in Sherlock's mind, one that he attempted to reject but knew must be true.

He looked past the car and spotted Lestrade, talking on his mobile with a harried expression on his face, while workers in white jumpsuits scuttled around taking measurements and setting out markers next to broken bits of colorful plastic and twisted metal. Donovan trailed along behind him, a bright red anorak pulled over her usual neutral-colored blazer. Lestrade gave him a small wave of acknowledgment and pointed toward the river.

When Sherlock turned in that direction, he saw John sitting on a rock on the riverbank, arms wrapped loosely around his knees, silent and still, staring out at the water blankly. The hems of his jeans were wet. John sitting alone. No Mary, no Gracie. . .

Without pausing to think of what to say, Sherlock circled the car and hurried to John, stumbling over the rocks and tree roots, shoes squishing in the mud. "John," he said simply, because there were so many questions and deductions whizzing around in his head he didn't know which one to start with.

John's face turned toward him, his eyes blank, a void. "She didn't come home," he said flatly. His head swung back toward the water, and Sherlock followed his gaze, mind working furiously. . .

She—Mary. Mary didn't come home. John wasn't on his way to hospital to see her, so she must be—had to be—(he forced his rebellious mind to follow that thread of logic to its natural conclusion)—dead. But what about Gracie? Heart pounding and stomach churning, Sherlock ran back to the car and leaned over to look in the back seat, where a baby seat was strapped in, empty except for mud and dripping water. The ruined cover was more brownish-green than pink now, the purple flowers barely visible.

Frantically he scrambled back over the rocky beach to John, who was still staring unseeing at the river. "Where is she?" he barked.

John blinked at him.

"The baby!" he shouted. "Where is Gracie?"

Still no response. Sherlock crouched next to John and seized him by the shoulders. "John! Where's the baby?"

John's expression turned to confusion, but his eyes still looked  _through_  Sherlock instead of  _at_  him. What did that mean? Had Gracie been in the car or not? Mary must have been, but Gracie. . .Suddenly Sherlock felt a hand roughly grab his arm and yank him off balance.

"She wasn't in the car," came Donovan's harsh voice.

Sherlock clambered awkwardly to his feet and confronted her, with his hands unconsciously balled into fists. "What happened here?" he snapped. "Where is Mary?"

"There wasn't anything we could do. She's been transported to the morgue. I'm—I'm sor—"

He cut off her attempted condolences with "Barts?"

"Yes, Lestrade insisted."

"I'm going to see her." He took two steps toward the embankment, but Donovan pulled him back with the hand that was still wrapped around his upper arm. He attempted to yank away, every muscle taut, but she hung on just as tightly.

"You can see her later," she hissed. "Right now, John needs you."

"I need to know everything," he snarled back. He was already furious—at the situation, at the lack of information—and Donovan made a convenient target.

She shook her head, curls quivering, lips thinned to a sharp line. "No, you need to sit with your friend. If you can't calm down and be a support for him, you can't be here."

Sherlock blinked at her. How dare she?! He took a breath to say more, but instead let it out through his nose. As much as he didn't want to admit it, she was right. For a moment, he just stood, tense and breathing noisily, then finally said, "All right, I'm calm. You can let go of me now."

"Good. Just let us do our jobs," Donovan said firmly, and then tacked on belatedly, "Please."

Sherlock had a thousand barbed comments floating around his brain that he wanted to fling at her, but he caught a glimpse of John out of the corner of his eye and relented, took a step back with his hand up in surrender.

Donovan, apparently mollified, released him and also backed up, turning to answer a question from a crime scene tech who had come up beside her. Sherlock didn't spare her another thought because his focus had moved to John, who was still sitting with his arms resting loosely on his knees, one hand grasping the other wrist, squinting out at the murky water. Droplets of rainwater clung to his hair, slid down his neck, and dampened his collar, but he had made no move to wipe them away or to avoid the rain.

Sherlock wanted to ask him so many questions (When was the last time you saw her? Where was she going? Where is Gracie right now? How could this happen?!), but he knew that would be more than a bit not good. He hadn't a clue as to what would be the right thing to say to John in this moment. All the phrases he could think of were completely trite and inadequate, so he said nothing.

He slipped off his coat and settled it around John's shoulders, which elicited only the barest reaction, then carefully sat down next to him on the rocky beach and stared out at the rushing river. After a moment of silence, it suddenly hit him like a slap to the face.  _Mary is dead_. Drowned in that tumbling gray water. The realization took him past the bare mental awareness of the fact to something visceral—a twist in his gut, a hard lump in his throat, pressure behind his eyes.

It took him a moment to realize that John had spoken, and when he untangled the words, he discovered John had said again, "She didn't come home." Pushing aside his confused thoughts, Sherlock turned and focused on John, silently waiting in case he gave more of the information that Sherlock was desperate to know.

After a breath, John continued flatly, "I didn't know where she was. She said she was going to Beth's house for the weekend. I didn't know."

There was a long pause. Sherlock waited, hoping John would answer his unspoken questions, but nothing more seemed to be forthcoming. He became aware that John was shivering. He could feel the tremor where their shoulders brushed against each other. John, who was always so strong, needed Sherlock to be a support for him right now. Giving in to emotion wouldn't do. John and Gracie were more important than his need for information, more important than sentiment. He needed to be clear-headed for John.

"John—" he started, but his voice was too shaky, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "John, let's go home. To Baker Street, I mean. You should get out of the wet."

"I need to stay here."

Sherlock looked around. It didn't appear that any of the milling police officers were waiting to talk to John. And if they did want to talk to him, they could find him later, somewhere warm and dry.

"No, you don't need to be here. Where is Gracie? Let's go get her and go to Baker Street."

"She's with Kate."

"Kate?"

"Our neighbor. I—I've got to go get her."

"Yes, let's get Gracie."

"I didn't send a jacket with her. Mary wouldn't want her out without a jacket."

"We can get her a jacket. Come on, let's go." Sherlock pre-emptively stood and held out his hand, but John ignored it, clambering to his feet on his own and swaying there unsteadily. For a moment he still looked unsure as to whether he was leaving or not, eyes scanning the area without reacting to the muddy, bashed-up car and flashing police lights.

Sherlock put a hand on his back and gently guided him towards the embankment that led up to the road. With his other hand he pulled out his phone and texted Lestrade.

**We are leaving. If you need John you can find him at Baker Street.**

After he sent it, he reconsidered. John didn't need a lot of idiotic police officers asking him even more idiotic questions. He quickly followed it up with another text.

**But don't come find him. He doesn't know anything.**

He slid the phone back into his pocket and followed John up the waterlogged slope, hand out to steady him as he picked his way slowly and clumsily over the rocks. It concerned him, now that he was paying attention, that John's eyes were so blank, that he seemed to have so little control over his body, but perhaps it was a reaction to shock and stress. Sherlock would have to research that later. At the moment he was too busy suppressing the mental jolt that came every few seconds, the awareness as if for the first time that  _Mary is dead. She's dead and she's not coming back._ He wondered if John was feeling the same, but decided not to ask.

When a cab pulled up, John shrugged off Sherlock's coat and handed it to him, then climbed wearily into the backseat without a word. Sherlock gave the driver John's address before he followed. He thought maybe John would say more, maybe give him a clue as to what he was feeling or thinking, but he just stared out the window, silent and expressionless.

Sherlock remembered with another jolt that Mary was dead.  _Mary is dead. Mary is dead_ , he reminded himself silently. Maybe it would come as less of a shock if he got used to the idea. In his mind he could see the car under the murky water, Mary's golden hair floating, eyes unseeing.  _Mary is dead_.

The cab pulled up at John and Mary's flat (no, just John's now, because  _Mary is dead_ , his mind reminded him), and Sherlock climbed out, but John didn't move.

"John? Come on, let's get Gracie." Sherlock held the door open while paying the cabbie, and after a moment, John climbed out and led the way to the neighbour's door, but then just stood there with his hands at his sides, fingers flexing open and shut, open and shut. Sherlock reached around him and knocked on the door, which was opened immediately by a stout, middle-aged woman holding Gracie in her arms. Sherlock felt his knees go weak with relief because, he realized, that up until that very moment he hadn't been positive that she was still alive. What if she had been in the car after all and John hadn't told him?

"Oh, John," the woman said with a look of alarm. "What's happened? Where's Mary?"

John just stood frozen on the doorstep, so Sherlock answered her. "She's dead," he blurted out. "We'll take Gracie now. Thank you for your help." He took the baby from the woman's arms (she was reaching for him anyway), pulled the door shut, and turned back toward John. He had already deleted the woman's name, and by the time he led John back to his flat, he had forgotten what she looked like as well. Gracie was the only thing that was important right now. Gracie, who was light as a downy chick in his arms, with her arm wrapped around his neck and her thumb tucked in her little pink mouth. She was wearing only a baby-gro and a single sock, so Sherlock pulled her in closer and wrapped his own coat around her to protect her from the drizzle.

John didn't pull out his keys until Sherlock reminded him to unlock the door, and even after it was open he didn't go in right away. He just stood in the open doorway staring blankly, with the keys still in his hand.

"John? Let's get Gracie's things, yeah?" Sherlock prompted.

"Right. Yes," John said automatically. He led the way in and kept going down the hall to Gracie's bedroom, but when he returned, he was carrying only a small, purple jacket. He sat in a recliner, with the jacket clutched in one hand, rubbing his face with the other.

Sherlock bit his lip, feeling very much out of his depth. He knew there were many more things Gracie would need, if they were to stay at Baker Street for a night, or possibly more, if Sherlock had his way—even though he didn't quite understand John's reaction, he sensed that John shouldn't be left alone right now, especially not to care for a baby.

Finally he crossed to the chair, disentangled Gracie's fingers from his hair, and said, "Here, John. Hold Gracie. I'll—I'll get her things." He held out the baby and John took her, without moving his gaze from an indistinct point on the wall. She snuggled into his arm but he seemed not to even notice.

With an anxious backward glance, Sherlock set about collecting the things he thought they would need: extra nappies, a handful of baby-gros, leggings, tiny socks, a bodysuit stained with yellow down its front, a blanket. All of these he stuffed into the nappy bag until it was fit to burst, then he grabbed a carrier bag from a drawer and gathered up jars of baby food, a box of rice cereal, a can of infant formula he found on the counter. He knew they would need bottles, so he grabbed the one in the drainboard, and finally after a brief search he found two more, looking barely used, behind the glassware in an upper cabinet.

He finished the task to find John still sitting staring at the wall, even though Gracie had begun to squirm fretfully in his arms.

"John, what do you need of yours?"

There was a pause before John responded, distractedly patting Gracie on the back. "I—I don't know. Clothes, I guess. . ." He shifted the increasingly upset baby to his shoulder and shushed her, arms wrapped tightly around her small body and lips against her ear.

"I'll find something. Almost ready." Sherlock headed down the hall toward the bedroom and was confronted with a whiff of Mary's perfume. The realization smacked him in the face again.  _Mary is dead. Not coming back. She's dead_. . . No, stop that! Must focus on John and Gracie. The dead couldn't be comforted by his actions; only the living mattered. He shoved sentiment aside and continued down the hall to the bedroom.

Trying to ignore all of Mary's belonging surrounding him, he hurriedly grabbed a couple of changes of clothes for John (folded shirts, a jumper, trousers, pants, socks, vests) and shoved them into a backpack. In the bathroom he found two toothbrushes, standing side by side in a white cup. After a moment's consideration he picked up the green one. The other one was yellow, and yellow was Mary's color.  **Was**  Mary's color.  _Mary is dead, dead, dead_. . .

With an effort, he kept moving, zipping the backpack shut and striding purposefully back to the sitting room, where John was rocking Gracie, who was still squirming and grizzling, with her whole fist stuffed in her mouth.

"All right, John, let's go."

John's eyebrows furrowed. "Where are we going?"

"To Baker Street, remember?"

"But we need to stay here, in case she. . ." John trailed off in confusion, then said softly, "Oh." After two deep, controlled breaths, he nodded sharply and pushed himself out of the chair. "Right. Let's go." Good. That was good, Sherlock thought, but he didn't say that aloud.

Sherlock hefted all of the bags and followed John to the door, where John took one of Mary's coats off the rack and tossed it over his shoulder. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at that but didn't say anything.  _Mary is dead_ , his mind taunted him.  _She couldn't breathe under the water_. The straps of the backpack were cutting into Sherlock's shoulders, making it hard for him to draw enough air into his lungs. He shifted the pack upward, but that didn't help. Maybe he was drowning too.

 


	2. Denial

**Chapter 2** : Denial

* * *

As soon as they walked into 221 Baker Street, Mrs Hudson emerged from her flat, with a flour-dusted apron wrapped around her waist. The smell of chocolate biscuits floated out behind her.

"Oh, John," she breathed, wrapping John and Gracie in a hug that he returned absently. "I'm so sorry, love."

John just gave her a distracted sort of nod, shifted the baby to his hip, and headed up the stairs without a word, leaving Sherlock to struggle along with all of their things. Mrs Hudson was saying something more, but he ignored her, because what more was there to say? Mary was dead. Neither of them needed to be reminded of that fact.

By the time he was halfway up the steps he was winded. Stupid backpack. Should have loosened the straps. He dropped all the bags just inside the door, and found that John had sat down in "his" chair with Mary's coat still over his shoulder and Gracie on his knee. She had moved into full cry now, but he scarcely seemed to notice.

Suddenly Sherlock realized she must be hungry. It was past lunchtime already, and that neighbor (whose name he had deleted) hadn't mentioned feeding her. She should have a bottle. He had no idea how to prepare a bottle, but he remembered there were supplies in with their things. Maybe he could figure it out.

He picked up the carrier bag containing the feeding supplies, scooped Gracie up off John's lap and carried her with him into the kitchen, where he read the side of the can of formula with his brow furrowed. It seemed unnecessarily complicated, but he followed the directions as well as he could, one-handed, pausing after every step to re-read the label to make sure he was doing it right.

When the bottle was finished, he offered it to Gracie, but she pushed it away with a cry of indignation.

"Come on, love, I know you're hungry," he wheedled, offering it to her again. She took a few sucks, then turned her head away and wailed. "What's wrong? Does it need to be warmed up?"

"She doesn't like the bottle," John called from the sitting room. "She wants Mary."

"Well, she'll have to take it," Sherlock said in frustration. "What else are we to do?"

"I don't know. She always fights me on it."

Sherlock hoped perhaps John would come in and take over, but he didn't appear, so he tucked Gracie under his arm like a rugby ball, pried the nipple off the bottle, and jammed the bottle into the microwave to warm the milk. It was probably wrong to use the microwave, but he was in a hurry because her cries were becoming more insistent now.

This time Gracie took the bottle, although still reluctantly, pausing every few seconds to remind him what a travesty this was, and leaving him nearly tearing his hair out in frustration.

While she was drinking/not-drinking the bottle, he walked back into the sitting room to find John still ensconced in his chair, twisting Mary's coat in his hands, with a lost look on his face. He didn't appear to have moved in the past half hour.

"You can stay here tonight," Sherlock said firmly, expecting a fight.

"Ok," John replied without looking at him.

"And the next night too, if you like. Stay as long as you want."

"Ok."

"You and Gracie should take my room. I'll take the upstairs room." Sherlock expected a comment about that, something about it being a generous gesture, but unnecessary, but John just nodded and carried on staring into space.

Watching him, Sherlock felt his chest tighten again. He had no idea what to do in this situation, no idea how to drain the sea of pain that John appeared to be swimming in. Hell, he didn't even know how to lessen his own pain, other than the obvious, which would be ill-advised given the circumstances. It would be difficult to care for John and the baby if he were high.

Gracie had fallen asleep in his arms with the bottle only half-finished, a line of milky drool running from the corner of her mouth. He carefully extracted the bottle and looked around for a place to lay her down. Should have brought her portable cot.

John was still staring at nothing and didn't react when Sherlock set the baby back in his arms, other than to tighten his grasp around her frail body. Sherlock could see the muscle jumping in his temple from grinding his teeth.

Suddenly Sherlock was struck by the injustice, the  _wrongness_  of it all. How could Mary be  _dead_? John didn't deserve to be a widower. Gracie didn't deserve to grow up without a mother. It was too much to process. The air was too thick to breathe.

He had to get out of there, for a little while, before he lost his composure. John was dealing with enough right now; he didn't need to have Sherlock fall apart on him as well. He needed to go to the morgue, see Mary's body, and get the facts from Molly. Facts, not emotion, would allow him to process this logically. He could better support and protect John and Gracie if he were in control of his emotions.

"I need to—" He broke off. He couldn't tell John he was going to the morgue. "I need to run an errand. I'll pick us up some take-away."

John didn't respond to that.

"Will you be all right for an hour or so?"

Still no response.

Sherlock raised his voice a bit. "John? Is it all right if I go run an errand?"

John turned his direction, although his eyes still seemed to look through him rather than at him. "Yes. We'll be all right. Thanks, Sherlock."

"Oh. Um—my pleasure," Sherlock said awkwardly, because what does one say in a situation like that? He grabbed his coat and escaped the stifling flat. Outside, the air was cooler, but the band of pressure around his chest didn't ease.  _Mary is dead, Mary is dead, Mary is dead. . ._

He found Molly in her office, half of a sandwich on a styrofoam plate abandoned next to her, and a cup of coffee on the corner of her desk; no steam, so the coffee had gone cold. A lock of hair had escaped her pony tail and fallen across her cheek. When she looked up at him, she tucked the hair behind her ear and cleared her throat.

"Sherlock. . ."

"I need to see Mary's body."

"She was only brought in this morning. I've barely even looked at her yet. I'm so sorry, Sherlock. . ."

He dismissed her expression of sympathy with a wave of his hand. "Irrelevant. I need to see her."

"I really don't think that's a good idea."

"Molly," he said intensely. She finally met his eye, her lips pressed hard together. He could see that she was trying not to cry, and for some reason he found that irritating. Facts, not emotion, were what he wanted from her. "I need to. Please."

She relented with a sigh, as he knew she would. "Yes, all right." She led the way back into the morgue, past the empty autopsy tables, and opened one of the coolers, rolled out the tray that held a white plastic body bag, through which he could make out the outline of the corpse. Mary's corpse.  _Mary is dead_.

Sherlock waited, staring unmoving at the outline of the body under the plastic, but Molly didn't open the zipper. Finally he looked up to find her biting her lip. "Are you sure you want to. . ."

"Yes," he said impatiently. "Do it already."

"I should warn you. . ."

"What?"

"Her face is. . . very cut up, and she was at least three days under the water, so decomposition. . ."

Sherlock blinked. Three days? How had he not been aware that Mary was missing for three days? He swallowed and forced himself to speak. "Yes, I'm aware." (even though he hadn't been) "Go ahead."

Molly opened the zipper and pushed back the sides of the bag, slowly, with exaggerated care. Sherlock tried not to react to the sight in front of him, but it was several seconds before he realized that he was not breathing. He made his lungs draw in a breath through a throat that seemed to have narrowed to the size of a drinking straw. The air was so thick, almost like a fluid surrounding him.

He became aware that Molly was speaking. "It doesn't appear she was wearing her seatbelt. There is no bruising on her shoulder or ribcage from it. She went through the windscreen. . ." Molly paused. Sherlock saw out of the corner of her eye that she had the back of her wrist pressed against her mouth. "I'm so sorry. I should. . ."

"Are you certain this is Mary?"

"Well, the inspector wasn't able to find any dental records—"

"Does she have an appendectomy scar?"

"Let me check. . ." Molly opened the bag further and Sherlock got a glimpse of her pale, soft flesh, mottled with bruising and decomposition and laced with gaping cuts from the windscreen. He spotted the scar before Molly did—a faint horizontal line just above her right hipbone. "It's her, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. Poor John. . ."

Sherlock blinked at the scar.  _Mary is dead, she's dead and she's not coming back._  He felt his stomach turning over, even though he had never been squeamish at the sight of a dead body. But never before had he been confronted with the body of someone he loved. He had seen his grandmother, but of course by the time she was in the casket she looked almost like she was sleeping. And he couldn't say that he loved her anyway. She was a bitter, cruel old woman who pinched him and pulled his curls to keep him in line.

He could tell that Molly was watching him, but he didn't look at her. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Mary's body on the slab. His gorge was rising, and he felt cool droplets of sweat on his forehead.

Molly quickly closed the bag and zipped it shut, and pushed the drawer back into the cooler. "I—I have her wedding band," she said. "I'm sorry, but I have to turn it over to the police."

"Of course." Sherlock didn't ask what she had to do to remove the band. It couldn't have been easy, given the condition of Mary's body, and he didn't feel he could stomach those details.

"Tell John I'm sorry. They'll give it back to him after the investigation is complete."

"Any sign of foul play?" he asked quickly, to change the subject.

"I couldn't say. With this level of decomposition, it would be difficult to determine the origin of the injuries. . ."

"You'll notify me when the autopsy is complete."

"Well, I'll see what I can do. Inspector Lestrade will talk to John about that. I'll have to have him come in to identify the body."

Sherlock's stomach rebelled at the thought of John having to see his wife in that condition, not with the fragile state that he was in at the moment. "I've identified her," he responded immediately. "John shouldn't see her like this."

"I'm sorry, but I need a family member if possible."

"I'm close enough."

"Sherlock. . ."

The prickly tightness had returned to his throat and eyes. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and swallowed hard to push his emotions back down where they couldn't hurt anyone. "You can't make John go through that," he said finally.

Molly relented with another sigh. "Yes, all right. How is John?"

"How do you think he is?" Sherlock snapped. He turned, stiff-armed the door and left without looking back, although he could practically hear Molly's open-mouthed blinking goldfish impression behind him.

* * *

Sherlock returned to Baker Street to find John still sitting in the chair, with a cold cup of tea in one of Mrs Hudson's floral cups next to him. Gracie was asleep on his shoulder, and he was patting her back rhythmically. Even though it was nearly dusk, he had not turned any of the lights on.

With a grunt, Sherlock set down the portable cot he had fetched from John's flat, which caused John to start and look around blearily. "Oh. Didn't hear you come in."

"I've brought take-away from Ying's," Sherlock said. "I'll set up the cot for Gracie, then we can eat it."

John's adam's apple bobbed up and down, and he shook his head. "I'm not hungry," he said tonelessly, and returned to the rhythmic patting, even though Gracie was clearly asleep and didn't care.

Sherlock didn't respond to that. To be honest, the smell of the grease was turning his stomach as well, but he felt it was important for John to eat. He carried the take-away to the kitchen, set up the cot (well, at least he thought it was right), took Gracie from John's arms and carefully laid her in it. She didn't stir.

"Come on to the kitchen," he said to John. "Time to eat."

"I said I wasn't hungry."

"Come in anyway and try," Sherlock urged. He held out his hand and helped John from the chair, led him into the kitchen, and sat him at the table. While he pulled the food out of the bags, John just sat with his hands limp in his lap, so Sherlock dished up two portions and set one in front of John, who didn't even look at it.

"Eat," Sherlock ordered, pushing a fork into John's hand. He expected another protest, but John just scooped up a small bite and began to eat, silently and expressionlessly. After only a few bites he set the fork down and pushed the plate away. His hands dropped back into his lap. Sherlock knew it wasn't enough. John needed to eat more, but he didn't know how to get him to do it. The helpless feeling was terrifying. Was this what John felt, all those times when the situation was reversed and John was trying to get Sherlock to eat?

"John, please, just a few more—" He was interrupted by a wail from the sitting room. John turned his head toward the doorway but didn't get up, so Sherlock went and fetched Gracie, who was sitting up, screeching in the cot, red-cheeked, with sleep wrinkles on her face and drool down her front.

"What does she want, John? Is she hungry?"

"I don't know," John said dully.

Sherlock tried, and failed, to get her to take another bottle. He tried mashed peaches, green beans, and even a fingerful of sweet and sour sauce, but she rejected it all. John just sat and watched while Sherlock got more and more frustrated, and Gracie's wails became louder and louder.

Finally Sherlock said, "I'm taking her for a walk. You could eat more, you know."

"I'm not—"

"Yes, I know, you're not hungry. Do whatever you like, then. I've got this." He knew his tone showed his frustration, but he couldn't quite control it. He could barely take care of himself, much less a cranky infant and catatonic flatmate.

As soon as he got outside, he regretted that he had hurried out without putting the little purple jacket on Gracie, as it was now cold and nearly dark. He tucked the baby inside his coat and started off down the block, bouncing her a little as he had seen Mary do many times. She snuggled in against his chest with her ginger curls tickling his chin and almost immediately stopped squirming. By the time he reached the corner, her cries had died down to whimpers around her thumb in her mouth.

Walking in the cool air calmed Gracie down enough that she finally deigned to take the bottle Sherlock had brought with him, and almost immediately afterward fell asleep in his arms.

When he came back to the flat, it was quiet. The leftovers had been put away, dishes were piled up next to the sink, and his bedroom door was closed, meaning John was in bed and didn't want to be disturbed. It was probably not good that John was withdrawing, but Sherlock had absolutely no idea how to fix that.

Gracie began to fuss again, rubbing at her face and half-closed eyes, and making sounds like a baby bird. Sherlock put her in her bouncer seat and turned on the vibration, but she arched her back and gave a thin wail.

Not knowing what else to do, he did what he always did when under emotional distress: took out his violin and began to play: a waltz, soft and slow. After the first few notes, her cries quieted. By the time he reached the second stanza, she had relaxed and was watching him with bright, calm eyes that seemed too old for her round face.

He lowered the violin and gazed back at her. What was she thinking? Did she know what was happening?

Gracie held out her arms toward him and he picked her up, pulled her in close enough to smell her sweet hair. Exhausted, he lay down on the sofa with her on his chest, even though he knew he ought to put her in the portable cot. Her warm weight was comforting, and the even rise and fall of her back under his palm was soothing. For a moment, he could almost forget, could almost believe that things would be all right. It was only a few minutes before her rhythmic breathing lulled him to sleep as well, with his coat and shoes still on.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh* Reviews and comments are so lovely. . .


	3. Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More soul-sucking grief, with a bit of a twist

(28 July)

_Drowning. He's drowning. They are pouring water over his face and down his throat, and he can't breathe. He's lying face-up on a cold, hard surface, arms and legs restrained. A cloth covers his nose and mouth, and through bleary eyes he can see the battered metal pitcher, the stream of lukewarm water falling toward his face. A hand holds the pitcher, but he can't make out the faces of his tormenters. Every attempted breath draws water into his lungs and makes him choke._

_Then someone is leaning over him. Blond hair, red coat: Mary, but her face is covered in cuts and bruises, grotesquely swollen. "Come with me," she whispers through battered lips._

_His restraints disappear and he follows her through a doorway, which leads to the hall where she and John got married. Then she is in a water-logged wedding dress and is dancing with John, who doesn't seem to notice the damage to her face. Sherlock tries to warn him, but nothing comes out of his mouth, and when he tries to take a breath, nothing comes in either._

_Mary reappears in front of him, holding Gracie, who is screaming and reaching for him. Now she is wearing her red coat again, ripped up and covered in mud. They are surrounded by dancers dressed in bright colorful frocks who spin past with smiles pasted on their faces. He can hear their feet pounding on the wood floor. The music swells as Mary leans in and whispers in his ear, "I can't breathe."_

Sherlock woke up gasping, itchy and sweaty and unable to get a decent breath. Gracie was still resting on his chest, still asleep with her thumb half-out of her mouth. He wrapped both arms around her and sat up quickly. It was a dream. Just a dream. Except it wasn't, because Mary was still dead. His chest and throat felt painfully constricted, like his lungs were full of water.

After a moment of gasping and coughing, he realized that the pounding he had heard in his dream was actually someone knocking on the door. At first he wondered who could be calling this early, but then he picked up his phone off the coffee table and realized it was after 10 am, so not so early after all. He had spent the entire night on the sofa with his shoes and coat on and Gracie on his chest.

"Just a moment," he called, while struggling to his feet. In his arms, Gracie began to stir, so he patted her on the back on his way to the door. "Who's there?" He ran his fingers through his sleep-mussed hair and tried to straighten his coat before opening the door.

"It's Greg."

It took Sherlock a minute to realize that "Greg" was Lestrade, and he discontinued his efforts to look more presentable. Lestrade wouldn't care anyway, so what was the point? He opened the door to find Lestrade, also looking rumpled and exhausted, with a cardboard box in his hands.

"Hey, Sherlock. Oh, hiya, Gracie." The corner of Lestrade's mouth turned up into a half-smile, and Gracie ducked her head into Sherlock's neck in response.

"Lestrade. I assume you have some information for me."

"Well, actually I'm here to talk to John." Lestrade lifted the box a little. Sherlock just frowned at him. "You could invite me in."

"John is asleep. You can give it to me."

"No, I'm not," came a voice from behind him, and when he turned he found John standing in the entrance to the kitchen, still dressed in yesterday's jumper and jeans. His hair stuck up in the back, but John wasn't a back sleeper, so that meant he had been awake staring at the ceiling all night.

Scowling, Sherlock stepped back and allowed Lestrade to enter the flat. Gracie had started to grizzle a bit, so he bounced her and let her chew on his finger, while Lestrade took off his jacket and had a seat in Sherlock's chair without being invited. John sat in the other chair, so Sherlock took the sofa. He thought he knew what was in the box, and he was eager to examine the evidence, but both Lestrade and John ignored him.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, John. We all are."

"Thanks, Greg."

"We all loved Mary," Lestrade continued without making a move to open the box, while Sherlock bounced Gracie on his knee impatiently. Enough with the pleasantries. They weren't helpful anyway. But John was nodding as though Lestrade had said something profound.

Sherlock must have made a noise, because Lestrade shot him a glance."I've brought her effects," he said, opening the lid of the box. Sherlock reached for it, but Lestrade handed it to John instead, who took it without looking inside.

"I'm sorry," Lestrade repeated. "It's not much, but it's all we could recover."

"It's all right. Thank you."

"John, can you tell me when Mary left and where she was going?"

"She left on Thursday morning," John said promptly. "She said she was going to a friend's house but I didn't find out until yesterday morning she never arrived."

"All right, thanks." Lestrade scribbled a note in his notebook. "We'll let you know when we're ready to release the body. Should only be a couple of days."

Sherlock was unable to contain himself any longer. "What have you uncovered in the investigation? I want to visit the scene today."

Lestrade shook his head. "We've finished with the scene and reopened the road. All signs point to an accident."

"Aren't you planning to continue investigating?" Sherlock demanded. He had stopped bouncing Gracie and she was beginning to whimper again, but he paid her no mind.

"There's nothing more to investigate. The skid marks indicate she attempted to brake before going off the road. We found her mobile in the passenger-side footwell. It appears it fell there and she removed her seatbelt to fetch it. I'm very sorry, but—"

"What about the autopsy?"

"I've asked Molly to do an external examination only. There's no reason to perform a forensic autopsy."

"External examination is useless!" Sherlock's voice had gone up in pitch and volume, and Gracie's rose to match. "With the level of decomposition involved, an external exam will tell us nothing!" He noticed out of the corner of his eye that John had stood up, but ignored him.

"Sherlock, keep your voice down. We don't see any need to do a full autopsy, unless you have some evidence we don't know about."

"You won't know that until the autopsy and investigation are complete, Lestrade."

"I'm sorry, unless John requests a forensic autopsy—"

"I'm not," John interrupted abruptly. When Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, John turned on his heel and went off to the kitchen without another word.

"John!" Sherlock called after him, but John didn't return. Over the sound of Gracie crying, Sherlock could hear his blood pounding in his ears. How could John not want an autopsy and investigation? It wasn't right!

When he turned back to continue the argument with Lestrade, he found that the inspector had also got to his feet and was shaking his head. "Sherlock. . ." He broke off with his lips pressed together and his hand to his forehead. "You're an idiot."

"What?" Sherlock demanded. "Why?" He couldn't think of anything he had said that wasn't objective truth. John and Lestrade were the idiots in this situation!

Lestrade lowered his voice and said tightly, "You might not want to talk about decomposition around a bereaved husband."

Sherlock hadn't thought of that, but it didn't matter. John and Lestrade were wrong and he was right. He stood up too, driven by the pounding of his heart and the tight feeling in his chest. In his arms, Gracie arched her back and struggled against his grasp, which had tightened from his clenched muscles.

Lestrade raised his voice to carry into the kitchen. "I've got to go. John, call me if you need anything. Please."

There was no answer from the kitchen, other than the water starting and the sounds of dishes clinking together. Lestrade gathered his coat and walked out, leaving Sherlock gaping at the closed door. As soon as he was gone, Sherlock strode into the kitchen, where John stood with his back to him at the sink, hands in the soapy water.

"How could you not request an autopsy?!" he cried angrily. "You have to insist on an investigation."

"The police don't think it necessary."

"The police are morons! John, what if she was murdered?!"

John spun around with a dish in his hands, red-faced, and shouted back, "If there's an investigation, a whole load of shit about Mary's past is going to come out! She wouldn't want that!"

"What does it matter now? She's dead!"

"I'm well aware of that fact," John spat back. "Maybe _I_  don't want to know about her past."

"We have to find out what happened!"

"It was an accident, nothing more," John said firmly.

"You don't know that without an investigation!" Sherlock cried

"She was in hiding, Sherlock! She was afraid all the time. I don't want to attract the attention of the people she was hiding from. You might not have a personal stake in this, but I have to protect Gracie."

"I care about Gracie too!" As if in response, the baby began to wail. Sherlock tightened his grip on her and swayed back and forth to calm her, to no avail. He could feel his heart thumping loudly in his ears and blood pounding through every muscle. He knew his breathing was too fast and raspy, but he couldn't slow it down.

"Then drop it, for Christ's sake!" John shouted.

For a moment, they both glared at each other in fury, while Gracie's wails grew louder and louder, until finally John took a step back and muttered, "She needs a bottle. I'll—I'll fix it."

Sherlock took a deep breath and blew it out slowly through his nose, ending in a cough. "Yeah. Ok," he said weakly. Gracie was still crying loudly in his ear, so he distracted himself by patting her back and shushing her.

As soon as the bottle was made, he held out his hand to take it, but John reached for the baby instead. Sherlock found himself gripping her more tightly.

"I'll feed her," Sherlock said. "There's a trick to it."

"She's my baby, Sherlock." John snapped back. "I can do it!"

Reluctantly Sherlock handed over the baby. John pulled her in with a quiet "Come here, love," and a kiss on the forehead. Whispering softly into her ear, he turned toward the bedroom, ignoring Sherlock completely. A moment later the door clicked shut, and Sherlock flinched involuntarily, even though John had closed it quietly and not slammed it as he had been expecting. Somehow the silence was more terrifying.

With his thoughts in disarray, he flopped down in his chair to enter his mind palace, and his gaze fell on the cardboard box that John had left sitting on the floor next to his chair. The cardboard box that contained Mary's personal effects. If this were something other than a tragic accident, maybe there would be some clues among them to prove it. John had said he didn't want a police investigation, but that didn't mean Sherlock couldn't do some investigating of his own, did it?

* * *

Sherlock didn't get an opportunity to begin any sort of investigation for the several days, as life quickly turned into a waking nightmare of funeral arrangements and burial details. Mary had left no instructions as to her wishes, so John was left to make all the decisions, which he proved completely unable to do on his own. Even Molly's capable assistance proved inadequate. Sherlock attempted, clumsily, to help John make the decisions he thought Mary would want, alternating between wheedling and bullying, while John alternated between silent withdrawal and explosions of anger.

"Cremation or burial?" Sherlock asked brusquely, eyes on his laptop which was open to a website titled 'Planning your loved one's funeral,' that advertised "We make cremation fast and simple!"

"I don't know."

"What cemetery?"

"I don't know."

"Service at a church, or graveside?"

"I don't know."

"What sort of flowers?"

"I don't know!"

Finally Molly took over the questioning, in a much more gentle tone than Sherlock could manage, and they began to make some headway, although mostly it was Sherlock making the decisions while John silently shrugged and nodded agreement. Simple wooden coffin. Interment at the same cemetery that held Sherlock's erstwhile grave. Small graveside service with family only, later memorial service at the Baker Street flat. Lilac flowers, yellow ribbons, no blue, and so on and so on, until Sherlock's head hurt and he could form no coherent thoughts, much less make any decisions that made sense.

Halfway through their planning, just as they were getting into a groove of making decisions without explosions, Mycroft phoned with an unsolicited offer to pay for the funeral expenses, which John turned down flat.

"Take him up on it," Sherlock recommended, voice loud enough that it surely carried through his hand covering the receiver. Fortunately he didn't care what Mycroft thought. "He can afford it."

"So can I," John insisted. "We have savings. I'm not indigent."

"Then save them. If Mycroft wants to pay, you should let him."

For a moment, John stared stony-faced at the wall, then finally he shrugged. "Fine, Mary wouldn't have cared. She would have agreed with you. She always agreed with you."

Sherlock wasn't sure what to make of that. Had he won the argument? It sounded like it, but something about John's tone invited caution.

"He's reluctantly agreed," Sherlock said into the phone, still eying John carefully.

"I heard. Have the funeral home send the bill to my office," Mycroft responded. "And convey my sympathy to John."

Sherlock bit off the retort that sprung to his lips and said, "Very well. Or you could stop by and do it yourself," he couldn't help but add.

"You know I'm in Cairo until Thursday, Sherlock. I will stop by when I get back."

"Don't bother." Sherlock punched the End button on the phone emphatically. It didn't give quite the same satisfaction as slamming down a receiver, but it would have to do. Back to the planning, expanded now that the budget had increased.

"Shall we have more flowers?" Sherlock asked lightly. "Perhaps a horse drawn carriage?"

"Whatever," John said flatly.

Right, attempts at humour were obviously a non-starter at the moment. So much for trying to lighten the mood. Change of subject. "Whom do you want to invite to the memorial service?" Sherlock asked, watching John's face in case he triggered yet another explosion, but John only shook his head dully.

"I don't know."

Sherlock bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting at him. "Well," he said tightly. "Who were her friends?"

"I don't know. She didn't really have many."

"Well, what about. . . Kate?"

"I don't know."

"How about the people we invited to your wedding?"

"I don't have the list. Mary had it."

"On her laptop?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

"Well, I can look."

"I don't want that many people here. I can't—I can't—"

"Then what do you want, John?!"

"I want you to handle it! I can't do this!" John launched himself off the sofa and disappeared into Sherlock's bedroom, where Gracie was already asleep in the portable cot, leaving Sherlock chewing on his fingernail until it started bleeding. John couldn't do this? Sherlock couldn't do this either!

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Molly said, and he could tell from her tone that she was near tears again. Please, not another person whose emotions he needed to deal with.

"Don't be," he snapped without looking at her. "Just don't."

There was a quiet sniffle, then the sound of her gathering up her things. "I think you need a break from this for a while. I can come back later if you like."

"I need a break from this forever," he mumbled.

"Sorry?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and marshaled his emotions back into order. "Never mind. Yes, later would be all right. . .Thank you."

After Molly left, he sat on the sofa with his fists tightly clenched and gave himself a lecture. Emotional outbursts are not helpful, he reminded himself sternly. His job was to be a support for John, not make things worse with temper tantrums. If John needed him to make a guest list for the memorial, then that was what he would do.

He texted John  **Going to your flat to get Mary's laptop** , even though John's mobile was sitting on the coffee table so he likely wouldn't see it anyway.

A cab ride later, he had to brave the minefield that was John and Mary's bedroom, with signs of her everywhere he turned: her hat hanging on the hook by the front door, hints of her perfume still in the air, her earrings sitting in a little yellow tray on her dresser. At least the laptop was easily found on the bedside table, under a trashy romance novel with dog-eared pages.

When he returned to Baker Street, he smoked two cigarettes on the doorstep, one after another, then shook out his coat before he went inside and discovered he needn't have bothered texting John, because the bedroom door was still closed and the phone was still lying on the coffee table, untouched.

It only took a minute to hack into the laptop, with a third cigarette hanging from his lips, then a couple more to discover that Mary had no document titled anything like "wedding guest list" in her documents folder. He kept poking around and finally ended up in her email, where he found a message, deleted but not erased, from around the time they were planning the wedding, that contained a list of names and addresses. Sherlock forwarded it to himself, and was about to exit the deleted emails folder, when something else caught his eye: an email, dated 3 July, so—three weeks before she died? It had come from an unknown hotmail account, with "Can we meet?" in the subject line.

Sherlock clicked on it before he could stop himself, and found the following:

_Hey Girl,_

_You and I were always friends, right? Now that I am back, want to go out? Easy as 123, just like Paradise, we can Walk together on Thursday, see you 1 pm._

_Star_

Sherlock leaned forward and squinted at the screen. Such odd wording, it had to mean something. He double-checked the wedding invitation list and found no one named "Star" or any variation thereof. Perhaps if he scrolled down the deleted emails, he would find more from the same person, or maybe something else interesting. . .

But he didn't get the chance, because at that moment, he heard the bedroom door open, and he immediately clicked back over to the wedding guest list while stubbing out the cigarette with a guilty start.


	4. Helplessness

(5 August)

The memorial was a disaster from the start, as Sherlock had been afraid it would be. Since John refused to give any input into the guest list, Sherlock and Molly (mostly Molly) had done the best they could, but it meant they hadn't quite known what they were getting from some of the "guests".

Molly did up the decorations, which were probably more over-the-top than Mary would have wanted (even including a pink, floral-print notebook where guests could write sickening little reminiscences about Mary), but John didn't complain, so Sherlock kept his mouth shut too. It was better to avoid an argument. Stay calm around John, don't show emotion, was his motto, which meant he frequently spent hours not saying  _anything_ , just to avoid saying the  _wrong_  thing.

Sherlock had debated about inviting Harry, but ultimately left her off the guest list, since she hadn't even bothered to show up for the wedding and hadn't contacted John since. Somehow she got wind of it anyway, because she showed up before any of the other guests had arrived, already three sheets to the wind and spoiling for a fight. Sherlock, who had been sitting on the sofa anxiously chewing the inside of his cheek and trying just to breathe normally, jumped up to head her off at the doorway.

"Why are you here?" he demanded.

Harry didn't look obviously intoxicated, but Sherlock could tell by the faint odor emanating from her pores, and a slight unfocused quality to her pupils, that she was pretty well pissed. "Pleasure to see you too,  _Sherlock_ ," she said, making his name into a curse word while looking him up and down disdainfully. "Where're my baby brother and my niece?"

"You weren't invited. Leave."

"I just want to meet my niece. That bitch would never even let me see her."

"No, Harry, that was me," John interrupted from behind Sherlock. "Don't blame Mary for that." John had been holding the baby earlier, but now his arms were empty, which meant he must have passed her off to Mrs Hudson, who had been fussing about all morning, preparing far too many snacks, rearranging pillows, and generally making a nuisance of herself.

"I'm family!" Harry hissed. "I shouldn't be excluded!"

"You didn't even bother to come to my wedding, why should I let you in now?" John shot back, hands curled into fists in a way that Sherlock was sure he wasn't aware of.

"That wasn't my fault, you tosser!" Harry shouted. Sherlock heard Mrs Hudson draw in a gasp, but he didn't have time to deal with that, because now Harry was trying to wedge her way in the door.

"Oh, no you don't," Sherlock said, catching her by the arm and pulling her out again. Putting his other hand on her back, he steered her down the stairs, over her protests, and out the front door.

When they were standing on the doorstep, he loomed over her, using his size to his advantage, and said in a firm but quiet voice, "If John doesn't want you here, you leave."

"But I—"

"No buts. You leave."

"What if I don't?"

"Would you like me to inform John where you really were during his wedding? Off with your little trollop? Clara doesn't know about her, does she?"

Harry's eyes widened and she shook her head rapidly.

"I'll keep it to myself, if you promise to go away and stay away, from John and from Gracie."

"Yes, I promise."

He leaned into her space and said quietly, "Don't try to contact him, don't come round. Ever."

"I'll—I'll stay away."

Sherlock released her arm and stepped back. "Excellent. Off you pop." If he could be rid of her quickly, he might have time to sneak a cigarette before he was missed inside.

She scuttled off with hurried steps, not looking back, pushing past a homeless woman on the pavement, and nearly bumping into another woman who looked vaguely familiar. Sherlock's hand paused on its way towards the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, and his attention switched to her, like a train jumping the tracks.

Instantly he started deducing. Hair cut in a pageboy meant to show off her long neck, which was really her only attractive feature. Coat poor quality, faux-vintage. Heels too high, skirt too short. The woman stopped in front of Speedy's and craned her neck upward at the building number, then looked around and spotted Sherlock.

"Ah, so I've come to the right place then," she said with a bright smile, exposing dazzling-white, artificially capped teeth. "Mary's memorial. Hello, Sherlock. Where is Harry off to?"

Oh, John's cousin, the one who didn't like Mary. If he hadn't known it already, it would be obvious by the way her smile soured when she said Mary's name. Had they invited her? Considering he had deleted her name, it was possible she had ended up on the guest list because she was family, without Sherlock realizing whom she really was.

Reading his disdain as confusion, she said, "Claire, remember? John's cousin. We met at the wedding."

"I recall," Sherlock said coolly, ignoring her offered hand, so instead she reached out and looped her arm through his.

"Oh, good. Shall we go in?"

He couldn't think of any good reason not to (and also he didn't want John to have to face this unpleasant woman on his own), so, sadly giving up on the much-longed-for cigarette, he let her cling to his arm on the way up the stairs, where she lost her footing and fell against him with an annoying giggle.

Just as Sherlock was setting her on her feet again, the door opened behind them and Molly entered, looking a bit bedraggled. Dryer in her building must be broken again, as her jumper had obviously dried hanging from a clothesline. As Sherlock was deducing this, she looked up and spotted them, then quickly looked away again with an unreadable expression.

Claire followed Sherlock around for the next several hours, always managing to somehow end up at his elbow as 221B filled up with people whose names Sherlock couldn't recall and didn't care to relearn. Every comment somehow required that she touch his arm or hand. Twice she expressed her delight at the color of his eyes and pronounced them "mesmerizing", and three times commented on the shape of his lips of all things, something about guessing they were soft, which was just ridiculous. Who cares if someone's lips are soft?!

He tried to catch Molly's eye to beg her to save him, but she just looked away with pursed lips in a drawn face. She was annoyed, but he didn't understand why.

Finally, the second time Claire handed him her wine glass and casually said, "Give me a top-up, would you, love?" (even attempting to take Gracie out of his arms in exchange for the glass), he lost patience with her and abruptly told her to fill it herself, the table was just over there. Or better yet, there was a bar around the corner where she could get as pissed as she liked.

Her face lost its simpering expression, and she leaned in and said in a quiet voice just for him, "You really are clueless, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not," he shot back hotly, even though he hadn't the foggiest idea what she was talking about.

Her eyes raked him up and down and her lip curled. "Poor Mary. Didn't know her husband was shagging his best friend."

Sherlock blinked at her. What on earth was she on about? Beyond irritated, he snapped back without thinking, in a voice that was a bit too loud for the room, "I suppose it's best for spouses to know. In fact, maybe I should inform your husband about your affair with his employer. Oh, and—good lord—his brother as well! Aren't you a busy girl?!"

The silence that followed was deafening, even to Sherlock, who was usually oblivious to such things. He looked around and saw Molly, who stared at him with a devastated expression and tears standing in her eyes. Suddenly the air grew hot and thick around him. What had he done? Why were they all looking at him like that? It was the truth!

And then, the silence was broken by a quiet click of a door closing. Sherlock glanced around the room and realized he could no longer see John. A moment ago he had been standing near the doorway from the kitchen to the hall, tumbler of brownish liquid in his hand, and now he was gone.

Lestrade spoke up, in a loud, commanding voice. "All right, that's quite enough."

"I should say so!" Claire cried. Lestrade caught her by the elbow, and she pulled back, but he held her firmly.

"You're leaving, miss."

"What, me? I didn't—you heard him! He's—"

"Out!" Lestrade insisted, steering her towards the door.

She was shouting something angrily back over her shoulder, something about not being married anymore, but Sherlock wasn't really listening; he could barely hear them over his own labored breathing anyway. Where was John? Was John angry with him? Oh, he had fucked this up badly.

Gracie had begun to whimper, so Sherlock pulled her in close with his nose in her curls and swallowed around the growing lump in his throat. His job was to control his emotions so he could support John, and now he had lost his temper, in front of everyone, and upset both him and Gracie.

Next time he raised his head, he realized that about half of their guests had gravitated towards the door where they were pulling on jackets and murmuring something about needing to get up early in the morning. Good, they could all get out as far as he was concerned. Except Lestrade, of course. And Mrs Hudson, who couldn't leave until the washing up was done. And Molly. She could stay. Gracie liked her. As he was thinking this, Molly was suddenly at his elbow, looking up into his face with a concerned expression.

"Are you all right?"

"No, I'm not all right!" he snapped at her, hoping she would be offended enough to walk away so she wouldn't see that his eyes were wet, but she didn't.

"I think John went into the bedroom," Molly said softly. "You should go talk to him. I'll hold the baby."

"I don't know what to say to him," Sherlock admitted in a hatefully shaky voice. "I can't. . ."

"You can. Just be there. He needs you."

"But  _what_  does he need from me?" Sherlock asked plaintively.

"Strength. Support. Someone to lean on. You can do it." She held out her hands, and Sherlock reluctantly handed Gracie over. The baby instantly latched onto Molly as if he didn't even exist anymore.

Wiping his sweaty hands on his trousers, he crossed the nearly empty kitchen to the hallway, which suddenly seemed a mile long. At the end of the hallway, the closed door mocked him.  _John doesn't want you around_ , it said.  _You are a screw-up and a bother_.

After a moment of telling himself to just breathe (which didn't seem to be working very well, for some reason), he forced his legs into motion. At the door, he stopped and listened. Nothing. At least that meant John wasn't screaming into his pillow, right?

He knocked lightly on the door, but there was no response, so he carefully eased it open and peeked in. John was lying sprawled out on the bed on his stomach, arms folded under his head, face turned away.

"John?" he said quietly. He expected a reproach, but there was nothing other than a light snore.

Sherlock stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, then sagged against it and stared at John's sleeping form. He had lost weight, at least three pounds in the week since Mary's. . . accident, despite Sherlock's vain attempts to get him to eat. His shirt was unpressed and half-untucked, hair rumpled.

With quiet steps Sherlock circled the bed and gazed down into John's face, which was also rumpled and care-worn even in sleep. A deep furrow stood out between his eyebrows. Corrugator supercilii—Darwin's Grief Muscle, Sherlock knew clinically, but he couldn't recall ever seeing it in action this clearly before. John's mouth was drawn down into a frown. That would be the depressor anguli oris, another clinical sign of emotional distress, but there was nothing clinical about John's pain. It was raw, ragged, confusing, and messy.

Sherlock sank down onto the bed next to John with a soft sigh. Why did this have to be so hard? When he had been playing dead, all those months of sleeping rough and eating whatever rotten bits of food he could lay his hands on, the only thing that kept him going was the thought that when he came back, John would be there and they could carry on as usual. Thoughts of their cases had kept him going during the day, and remembering watching crap telly by the fire in 221B while John hunted and pecked at his laptop had kept him warm on nights so cold that his fingers turned numb and he was shivering too hard to sleep. His one bright spark of hope was the certainty that John was still sitting by the fire in 221B waiting for him to return.

And then he had returned, and discovered to his surprise that John had moved on, was no longer at 221B and wouldn't be coming back, and he almost fell apart. The loneliness he had felt at that moment was a physical pain far worse than taking an actual beating.

But even more surprising was that it was Mary who brought them back together. Mary who encouraged John to forgive him and re-establish their friendship. Mary who sent John off on cases with a smile. John had loved her, and very quickly Sherlock had loved her too; even after she had shot him and nearly killed him, he still loved her.

And now she was gone, leaving John shattered into a pile of broken pieces that Sherlock had no idea how to put back together, because he too was shattered. John needed him to be strong, but how could he be strong when he felt so broken? The lump that had been blocking Sherlock's throat pushed its way up and out in a choking sob. He pressed his hand over his mouth in an attempt to keep it in, but that didn't help. Almost immediately the tears began to flow, hard and fast, and he wiped them away as they dripped off his chin.

"John, I don't know what to do," he whispered hoarsely, squeezing his eyes shut to try to stop the flood. "I'm so sorry; I can't fix it."

John stirred slightly and sighed in his sleep, turned his head the other direction so Sherlock could no longer see his face. Hesitantly, Sherlock reached out and smoothed his messy hair. "I wish I knew how to help."

By the time Sherlock emerged from the bedroom, nearly everyone had left and the flat was quiet. As he entered the kitchen, he saw Lestrade and Mrs Hudson with their backs to him, side by side at the sink doing the washing up. Beyond them in the sitting room Molly lay on the sofa, eyes closed, with Gracie asleep on her chest. It was such a domestic sight, so ordinary, and yet for some reason it brought the lump back to his throat.

Mrs Hudson spotted him, came over and wrapped her arms around his middle in an unexpected, soapy-handed hug. "I love you, sweetheart," she said softly, just loud enough for him to hear.

The words caught Sherlock by such surprise that he only coughed weakly in response. Was this what loving someone felt like: this tight feeling in his chest, this overwhelming worry for their well-being, this helplessness? If so, he wasn't sure he wanted it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me swoon. I'd love to hear what you think!


	5. Anger

(6 August)

The next day, they ran out of nappies, and formula, and clean clothes for Gracie, even though Mrs Hudson had been doing the laundry every other day. Seeing as each outfit only lasted about an hour before being pooped on or spit up on, the three baby-gros Sherlock had initially grabbed only went so far.

John was still in his pyjamas, watching crap telly and wandering aimlessly around the flat with Gracie in his arms, even though it was half-one, so Sherlock decided to just go to his place and fetch what they needed.

"I'm off to get nappies and clothes for Gracie," he informed John, patting the pockets on his coat to make sure his packet of cigarettes was still there.

"Yeah, fine," John responded, although Sherlock wasn't sure he had even heard what he had said.

"Do you want anything for yourself?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Ok, fine then. I'm off," Sherlock closed the door behind him harder than he had intended. He was getting fairly sick of the way John was moping around, frankly. He had tried to be patient, but he had hoped by now, after almost a week, John would have moved past the initial shock and at least be able to do  _something_.

When he got to John's flat, he had to break in, because he hadn't thought to bring the key. And then he had to brave the gauntlet of perfume to get to John and Mary's room. He had already cleaned out the stash of nappies in the closet in Gracie's room, but he knew there more in a back cupboard in the master bathroom. Why they were stored there, he had no idea. Mary was famous for squirreling things away in unlikely spaces, probably a result of her uncertain childhood and former lifestyle.

He sat on the floor and reached into the cupboard, which was quite low and deep, pulled out a stack of nappies, and piled them haphazardly next to him. May as well bring them all, he thought. Won't have to come back later.

After three more attempts, he had nearly all of them, but when he stretched to grab the last stack, a few fell down behind a pile of hideous flowered towels. With a grunt of annoyance, he reached around the towels to try to fetch them, but instead his fingers hit something made of paper.

Frowning, he caught it between his fingers and tugged, and after a few pulls, a manila envelope appeared, A4 sized, slim and new-looking. He could tell by the weight that there was something inside, some sort of thick paper.

He turned the envelope over in his hands. Nothing was written on either side. The flap was closed but the envelope was unsealed. Sherlock stared at it for a moment in indecision. Someone had hidden it there deliberately. The envelope was in perfect condition, which wouldn't be the case if it had fallen down there from another shelf. And the fact that it was behind a stack of floral towels indicated that the person hiding it had been Mary, as she could be assured that John was unlikely to ever use those towels.

John had said he didn't want a police investigation. He hadn't said he didn't want  _Sherlock_  investigating, although he did say he didn't want to know about Mary's past. John wasn't there and wouldn't know. Therefore, no one would be harmed if he opened the envelope. In fact, he  _should_  open it. If she had been murdered, Mary would  _want_  him to find out who did it.

Even though his actions were perfectly logical, Sherlock found that his mouth had gone dry and a thin sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead and upper lip. With clammy hands, he opened the flap and pulled out the contents, which turned out to be two photographs, 8x10 sized. He stared at them for a moment, unsure of what he was seeing.

The photograph on the top was of two men in military fatigues, tan berets perched crookedly on their heads. The arm of the one on the left was slung around the shoulders of the other in a companionable way, and both were grinning roguishly at the camera. After a moment's scrutiny, Sherlock realized that the man on the right was John: much younger, hair lighter, face smudged with dirt but unlined and carefree. His cap had the green and red badge of the RAMC. The other man Sherlock didn't recognize, but the patch on his sleeve identified him as a major. He had a thin, freckled face, a shock of ginger hair (definitely longer than regulation) protruding from under his cap, above close-set eyes and a pointy nose. Part of his name badge was visible in the photo: Mjr C McMast—

Sherlock noted the details, then flipped to the second picture, and froze. It depicted a sandy, barren clearing surrounded by scrubby trees and brush, craggy bluffs in the background. In the middle of the clearing, two men, one bearded and one clean-shaven, wearing grey-green uniforms and red berets that identified them as Afghani soldiers, knelt with their hands on the backs of their necks. Their skin was tan and their hair dark and close-cut. Next to the bearded man, another man in British military fatigues held a pistol to his head: a Glock 17 service revolver, Sherlock could tell by the shape of the grip and barrel. The soldier's ginger hair and arm patch were clearly visible in the photo.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes when he saw another soldier standing behind the group. Blonde hair covered in a tan cap with a smudge of a green and red badge, holding a rifle pointed at the ground. His stance was so distinctive that Sherlock recognized him immediately. Why would John be involved in holding two locals at gunpoint?

He flipped the picture over and found written in pencil on the back "Golestan 2007". The handwriting was clearly a woman's, but not Mary's.

For several minutes, Sherlock just sat and stared at the picture. A thousand questions were buzzing around in his skull. He knew Golestan was a province in western Afghanistan, but he had no idea if John had ever been there. He didn't even know if the photo in his hand was real or a fake, although he could see no signs of alterations, and even if it were real, there was not enough evidence in the picture to determine what was really happening.

After he had taken in all the details in the picture, he held the envelope up to the light and could see the shadow of a small piece of paper down in the corner. When he upended the envelope and shook it, the paper fell out into his hand. It was just a scrap, torn off a corner of a larger piece of lined paper, with the words "LCpl Q Wood" scrawled on it, in the same handwriting as that on the photo.

Ignoring the tight feeling in his chest, Sherlock slipped everything back into the envelope and slid it into the bottom of the bag of nappies. Then he carried the bag to the sitting room and looked around. If he had found an envelope in the bathroom, what else had Mary hidden in this flat? And what the hell did it mean?

* * *

That evening, after John had disappeared into the bedroom, having barely touched his dinner, to put Gracie to bed, Sherlock lit up a cigarette and pulled Mary's laptop from the place he had hidden it behind a textbook about hair identification techniques.

He opened the deleted emails first and did a search for Q Wood, but came up empty. Then he started on names starting with Q, beginning with Quinten and Quincy, before finally finding a hit on "Quill" (who names their child Quill?! he thought). An email had been sent to a gmail account Quill1991ad on 10 July, about two weeks before Mary's death, so about two days after she had presumably met up with "Star" at some unknown location.

The email was brief and to the point.

_I hear you have some information I might be interested in. Meet me by the Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens, Sunday 2 pm._

There had been no reply. Sherlock reflected that Mary had been clever in her choice of time and place to meet. On a Sunday at 2 pm, that park would have been mobbed with young families. Busy enough that no one would notice them, and the person she was meeting wouldn't dare start a scene.

Next he did a search for Golestan, Afghanistan, 2007, and halfway down the first screen of results he found a hit for a Golestan Massacre. Sherlock blinked at the screen in shock. John couldn't have been involved in anything like that, could he? It must have been a coincidence. With his heart pounding in his throat, he hovered the mouse over the link, which was from the Daily Mail (ptooey!).

Sherlock didn't have time to click on the link, because at that moment Gracie began to wail, and just as Sherlock had closed the laptop and waved away the cigarette smoke, John emerged with an empty bottle in his hand. When he saw Sherlock at the window, he stopped and narrowed his eyes.

"What are you up to?"

"Oh, just getting some fresh air."

"It's bloody freezing. August and it's bloody freezing. Aren't you cold?"

"No, I'm fine. A bit warm, in fact."

John sniffed the air. "Have you been smoking again?"

"No," Sherlock lied, but his body betrayed him with a coughing fit.

"You need to give that up, I've told you before. I can't have smoke around Gracie."

"I'm not smoking around Gracie. She isn't even out here."

John made a face at him, and Sherlock thought he was going to pursue it further, but instead he just shrugged and went to the cupboard for the infant formula. As soon as John was distracted, Sherlock quickly pulled the laptop out from behind his back, stowed it back on the bookshelf, and replaced the textbook back in front of it. His investigation would have to wait for another day.

* * *

_He is dancing with Mary at her wedding. She is wearing her mud-caked wedding dress, hair plastered to her head and water dripping into her cut-up face, which no one seems to notice. She leans in and whispers, "I can't breathe." Her lips are turning blue, but all around them dancers are whirling in a sweeping foxtrot and no one pays them any attention at all._

" _It was John," she whispers in his ear, and then he's gasping too, for air that doesn't come. He looks around frantically for escape and spots John, holding Gracie in one arm, with a bucket of water at his feet. He grabs Sherlock by the back of the neck and drags him down. Sherlock, unable to keep his feet, lands heavily on his knees. John shoves his head under the water. Gracie begins to wail._

Sherlock woke up, drenched in sweat, to the sound of Gracie crying from downstairs, and then the creak of John's footsteps moving from the bedroom to the kitchen. He lay for several moments struggling to get his breathing under control.

What a ridiculous dream. It was just a dream. Best not to think about it until he had further evidence. That photo was a fake, it must have been, right? He was almost afraid to find out.

* * *

(9 Aug)

When, three days later, John and Gracie were still hanging around Baker Street without any plans being made for the future, Sherlock made a decision: they should move into 221B permanently. Sherlock had given the situation a lot of thought while sneaking cigarettes in the alley. The flat was large enough, John could share with Gracie the downstairs bedroom he had been hiding in for the past week and a half, and Sherlock would move into the smaller upstairs bedroom. It made sense. Even Mrs Hudson agreed, for what that was worth. All that remained was to inform John of the decision and start moving them in.

Ah, John, who was still spending most of his days in his pyjamas, either asleep (far too much in Sherlock's opinion) or skulking about the sitting room, unshaven and unkempt, with Gracie in his arms. He hadn't accepted any locum work, hadn't accompanied Sherlock on any cases (although Sherlock had tried to persuade him to), hadn't even been back to his flat since Mary died. When John needed anything, Sherlock was the one to brave the perfume gauntlet to fetch it (and if he looked around a bit in the process—fruitlessly—well, John was none the wiser).

After shaking out his coat, which he had thrown on over his dressing gown while slipping out to the alleyway for his second cigarette of the morning, Sherlock entered the flat, confident that John would still be sleeping. That confidence faded when he heard noises coming from the kitchen, first Gracie whinging (her "I'm going to be wailing in hunger in five minutes" cry), then John reassuring her that food was on the way.

"John," Sherlock said on his way into the kitchen. "Mrs Hudson and I think you two should move in here."

"Oh you do, do you?" John responded mildly. He had a package of biter biscuits in his hands and didn't look up.

"Yes. It only makes sense. You can't afford your flat on one salary."

"Yes, I can." John said with a grunt. He still hadn't looked up.

"No, you can't. If you move in here, I can cover most of the rent, and Mrs Hudson can look after Gracie while you work."

"It's not necessary." John twisted the package of biscuits around and tugged on it, apparently trying to open it, but Sherlock could see that he had missed the easy-open tab on the side.

"John, let us help," Sherlock said in a reasonable tone, while extracting the package of biscuits from John's hand.

"I don't need any help!" John exclaimed. He tried to take the package back, but Sherlock ignored him. He pulled the tab to open the package and handed a biscuit to Gracie.

"Don't take things out of my hands!"

Sherlock frowned. "You were doing it wrong. I was trying to help."

"I told you, I don't need your help!" John shouted. He grabbed his jacket and stomped out, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock watched him go, utterly confused. What was wrong with offering to help, and how did he manage to keep messing things up so badly?

Gracie had gone from whinging to full cry now. Sherlock took her out of the high chair, grabbed the bottle which was already prepared on the counter, and tried to feed her, but she was having none of it. Walking around the kitchen didn't help.

Sherlock's face had started to itch, and the constant tightness in his chest now moved up to his neck like a noose. His every breath was accompanied by a strange whistling sound on the exhale. As he gasped for air, he started to become light-headed. Not wanting to fall with Gracie in his arms, he abruptly and awkwardly sat down on the kitchen floor. Time to give up the cigarettes, he told himself distractedly.

Gracie squirmed in his arms, pushing the bottle away, even though she clearly was hungry. Her cries got louder as she became more frantic. She didn't want the bottle, she wanted Mary. Well, Sherlock reflected, that made two of them.


	6. Denial, take 2 (oh dear, sort of going backwards here, aren't they?)

 

_He is kneeling in sand, fingers laced at the back of his neck. A hand holds a gun to his head. When he looks up to see the owner of the hand, he can make out the outline of a woman's body, in a dazzling white wedding dress. She is silhouetted against the sun, so bright it nearly blinds him. The fingers wrapped around the gun are wearing bright red nail polish, but underneath the fingernails are caked with dirt, and the skin has an unhealthy purple cast._

_Behind the woman stands a man wearing camouflage, but he is an indistinct blob. Near his feet lie dozens of bloated bodies with blank, upturned faces, rotting in the heat. The stink of blood fills the air and turns Sherlock's stomach._

* * *

 

Sherlock woke suddenly to find John crouched beside his elbow, wistful half-smile on his face. Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, and he almost sat up before he remembered that Gracie was snuggled on his chest. Lying back, he pushed a hand through his sweaty curls.

"Hey," John said softly, gaze traveling down to the baby, who still lay relaxed in sleep, back rising and falling rhythmically under Sherlock's hand.

"Hey, yourself," Sherlock said back, carefully. It was dreadful to feel so unsure of himself, especially when it came to John.

"I'm sorry." John's eyes came back up, and Sherlock caught a hint of unsteadiness there, a slight contraction of the brows. "I really am. I know I was out of line." John reached out to take the baby, who had begun to squirm, so Sherlock handed her over and sat up.

"It's all right. I'm sorry too. I—I don't know how to help." As soon as the words left his mouth, he winced, sure he had said the wrong thing.

But John didn't get angry. Instead he calmly shook his head. "I don't need help, honestly. But I will take you up on the offer of a flat share. It would be better anyway. Closer to the surgery."

"Perfect," Sherlock said with a grin.

"And I'm sorry I've been a complete prat, to everyone."

"You've been fine—"

"No, I haven't. I've been squatting here being completely useless. I just couldn't face going back to our flat. Her things are everywhere and I knew I couldn't handle being around all of that."

"I understand. So. . . you're going back to work?"

"I plan to, yes."

"Excellent." They exchanged a grin. "Mrs Hudson is dying to babysit for Gracie. Maybe. . . maybe you could come on some cases with me?"

John's smile faded. "I can't do that, Sherlock. I'm sorry, Mary wouldn't. . . I just can't. I have to be there for Gracie. If I got hurt, she would have no one."

"Oh. Right."

"You understand?"

"Yes, of course. Gracie needs you," Sherlock said breezily. He knew John was right, but he also knew that investigating cases would help John feel better. John needed some adventure or he would go stir crazy. "When can we start moving you in? I was thinking you and Gracie could have my bedroom permanently."

"Really?"

"Yes, it only makes sense—" He didn't get to finish that sentence, because John unexpectedly caught him by the neck in a tight hug.

"Thanks, Sherlock. For everything." John's voice broke, and Sherlock silently begged him not to cry, because that would likely end up with them both in tears. He needed to be strong, and dissolving into tears in front of John didn't exactly fit that bill.

At the tail end of the hug, Sherlock caught a whiff of something sour and stale. Alcohol? Well, he supposed it only made sense that John had gone out for a pint to drown his sorrows.

When John pulled back, Sherlock caught a glimpse, just a hint of that unsteadiness again: corrugator supercili contracted, pupils just slightly. . .off. John was smiling, but when Sherlock looked into his eyes, there was no joy to be found there.

* * *

(11 Aug)

"All right, John, where shall we start?" Sherlock said enthusiastically. When there was no reply, he looked back to discover that John had not followed him into the flat, but rather was standing on the doorstep chewing on his lip, eyebrows pulled down and together in distress. "John?"

"Right." John shifted Gracie to his other hip, inhaled deeply, and stepped over the threshold. Ah good, he was in now, everything should be fine.

"Steady on, love," Mrs Hudson said from behind John, patting him on the arm. "It'll be all right." Sherlock thought her reassurances rather unnecessary, but John favored her with a wan smile.

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson," John said. He stepped aside so she and Molly could come in and drop the boxes they were carrying in the sitting room. Molly was giving John a sympathetic glance too. Sherlock wished they would just get on with it. Why waste time on sentiment when there was work to be done?

"John, let's start with your bedroom," Sherlock decided, but Mrs Hudson overruled him.

"I think you and I can work in the kitchen, John."

John, whose eyes had been darting about the flat uncertainly, said, "Oh, yes, the kitchen."

"Sherlock, you and I can take care of the bedroom and bathroom," Molly said, giving Sherlock a little push on the back.

"I'll just put Gracie on a blanket in the sitting room," John said. He grabbed a blanket off the back of the sofa and laid it out on the floor. "She should be fine here with a few toys."

"Lovely," chimed in Mrs Hudson. "We can keep an eye on her from the kitchen, can't we, darling?" She pinched Gracie's cheek and made silly faces at her until she started to giggle.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let Molly prod him down the hallway to the bedroom, where a hint of Claire de la Lune still lingered in the air. Sherlock had been there enough times in the past week that he barely noticed it anymore, but Molly stopped just inside the doorway of the bedroom and said, "Oh, I can see why John didn't want to come back here. Must be awful for him."

"He's getting better," Sherlock reassured her. "I think he'll be right as rain soon enough."

"I don't think so," Molly rejoined, dropping an armload of boxes on the floor next to the bed. "It's only been a couple of weeks. It takes a bit longer than that to get over the death of a spouse."

"He's had a bit of a rough patch, but he's tough. I'd say he's through the worst of it." Sherlock argued. Molly opened her mouth as if to say more, but he didn't give her a chance. "I'll start in the bathroom."

"Yeah, right. I'll start with John's clothes. What do you suppose he wants to do with Mary's clothes and personal items?"

"I don't know. Maybe some of her clothes would fit you."

"Oh, I don't think so," Molly said quickly, holding up a cream-colored cardigan. "Although she did have some lovely things. . ."

"Ask him. I'm sure he won't mind."

"No, no, I'm not going to ask him, Sherlock. Think how John would feel if he saw me wearing his dead wife's clothes. Not to mention how I would feel about it. She was my friend too." Molly carefully refolded the sweater and laid it back on the bureau where she had found it. Sherlock shrugged and went on into the bathroom, where he quickly began to pull out towels and flannels and toss them haphazardly into a box.

After about an hour, he had got through the cupboards in the bathroom without finding any more hidden items squirreled away. With a mixture of disappointment and relief, he went back into the bedroom, where Molly was standing with her back to him, going through a closet. For a moment, he considered telling her about what he had found in the bathroom, but decided against it. He still didn't even know what it meant himself, and he hadn't the energy to correct any assumptions Molly might make. Still, it would be good to have an ally—

"Sherlock, could you empty the rubbish bins?" Molly said loudly without turning around.

"I suppose."

She whirled around. "Sorry, thought you were still in the bathroom. There's one under Mary's desk."

"I've got nothing to put it in." Sherlock hoped if he put up enough roadblocks, he could get out of the unpleasant task, but Molly was undeterred.

"I brought some carrier bags in the box by the bed." She had already gone back to the closet and was standing on tiptoes to remove a box on back of the upper shelf.

"Are you sure you don't want to trade jobs?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

"No, I've got this." And indeed she did. The box, rectangular and yellow, with a combination lock on the front, was added to the pile on the ground. Sherlock was curious as to what might be in it, but he didn't dare look while Molly was standing right there.

"All right." Sherlock took a carrier bag and sat down in Mary's desk chair. The rubbish bin was overflowing, with what looked like a disgusting mix of used tissues, discarded plasters, and food wrappers. He carefully held open the carrier bag with one hand and upended the bin with the other. Most of the rubbish went into the bag, but a few tiny scraps of paper escaped and floated to the floor.

With an annoyed huff, he leaned over to pick them up, then held them in his palm and frowned at them. The scraps were thicker than printer paper, mostly off-white with an tantalizingly familiar iridescent cast. They were almost triangular, with one square corner, and the opposite side was a concave curve. He rubbed one of the scraps between his fingers and felt that it had a plastic-laminated surface. Memory teased. . .

He didn't have time to solve the puzzle, because at that moment he heard John's voice, shouting down the hall, "Sherlock! Molly! Come quickly!"

Fearing perhaps there had been an emergency, Sherlock hastily shoved the tiny scraps of paper into his jacket pocket and followed Molly down the hallway to the sitting room, where he found John kneeling on the floor next to Gracie, who was on her belly nearly a meter away from the blanket she had been lying on previously. John and Mrs Hudson both had huge, proud grins on their faces, while Gracie seemed quite unperturbed as she chewed on a teething toy.

"She got there herself!" John exclaimed. "I think she must have crawled there!"

"No, rolled," Sherlock corrected him. "She's parallel to the angle she was at previously. If she had crawled, she would have ended up over there."

"Let's find out," Molly said eagerly, scooping up Gracie's favorite toy, a well-chewed pink bunny with a squeaker, from the blanket and kneeling in front of Gracie. Gracie eyed it for a minute while they all held their breath, then popped up onto all fours and rocked there uncertainly. Just as Sherlock was sure she was going to crawl, she dropped back onto her belly and used her arms to pull herself along like a soldier.

"Clever girl!" John exclaimed. "Army crawl, just like daddy!"

And then they all, even Mrs Hudson, got down on their hands and knees around Gracie, calling out encouragement and cheering her on when she half-crawled, half-dragged herself to one or the other. All thoughts of packing (and even the scraps of paper in Sherlock's pocket) were momentarily forgotten in the excitement, which is exactly how Lestrade found them when he arrived to help load the boxes in his pickup for the move.

* * *

When he arrived back at Baker Street, Sherlock escaped from the crowded cab of Lestrade's pickup, hand already patting his pocket for his cigarettes. It had been almost two days since he had last had one, and he was gasping.

Feeling the crinkly wrapper through his pocket, he suddenly remembered sitting on the floor in the kitchen with Gracie in his arms, unable to breathe. That was his future if he continued smoking. And the next time it happened he might fall and crush her. He was determined not to let her get hurt. He needed to make a clean break, starting now.

On his way down the pavement to 221, he tossed the package of cigarettes to a skinny, filthy homeless woman who was huddled in an alcove next door to Speedy's. She looked up, with one crossed eye, a surprised expression on her dirty face, and then her frizzy head bobbed up and down in gratitude. As he walked on, she had already pulled a cigarette from the pack and was holding it between her lips while she fumbled to spark a lighter with shaking, nicotine-stained fingers. Sherlock shuddered and turned away from the pathetic spectacle.

That night, after about half of the boxes had been unpacked, Gracie had been tucked into bed in her regular cot fitted with clean sheets (thanks to Molly). John followed soon after, and Sherlock retired to his new (to him) upstairs bedroom and lay back on his bed, which barely fit in the smaller room. It was a bit tight in there, and he would have to go all the way downstairs to the loo, but he didn't mind. In fact, he felt content for the first time in quite a while. John was moving in, and things could get back to normal. Well, the new normal anyway.

They hadn't quite finished packing up John's flat, and there was still the question of what to do with Mary's things, but the process was moving along quite well. Soon maybe John would even start assisting on cases again, despite his initial protests. It would do him good to stay active, keep him from moping around.

While he was ruminating, Sherlock stuck his hand in his jacket pocket to retrieve his cigarettes, but came up empty. It took a second of searching before he remembered that he had given them away, and then he was distracted when his questing fingers hit something else: several small scraps of paper. What were they? Oh yes, the tiny paper triangles he had rescued from the rubbish under Mary's desk.

Sitting up, he pulled the scraps from his pocket and turned them over in his palm. He counted 13 pieces in his hand, and he had no idea if there had been more in the rubbish that had ended up in the carrier bag, as Molly had taken it from him and disposed of it before he could think up an excuse to take a closer look.

Something about the papers looked familiar. They had a slight pinkish cast, and the shape indicated they had been cut from the corners of a larger piece of slick, heavy-weight paper. Frowning, he crossed to his small desk, which had been moved up to his new bedroom that afternoon, opened the drawer and pulled out his passport. When he felt the pages, he knew instantly that this was the same type of paper that the scraps had been cut from. The corners of the pages in the passport were rounded, the shape of which matched perfectly the concave edge of the tiny triangles.

So had Mary been forging a passport? If so, why? What had she been planning to do with it? And did he really want to know?


	7. Confusion

(12 August)

_He is kneeling in the sand with his fingers laced across the back of his neck, while a hand holds a gun to his head. This time he can see Mary's face, which is covered with gaping cuts. Bloody water drips from her pink-tinged wedding dress. "Please," he begs her. "Please don't do this."_

_She leans in close and whispers in his ear, "I can't breathe." A movement by her shoulder distracts him, and when he looks past her he sees John, dressed in camouflage, holding a rifle to his shoulder, with the barrel pointed at Sherlock's chest. He fires, and Sherlock's chest caves in on itself, lungs collapsing as they detach from the inside of his ribs._

Sherlock woke up panting and sweaty, doubled over with a coughing fit. For several minutes he lay with his arms around his stomach, fighting to draw air into his lungs. Every breath was accompanied by a high-pitched whistling sound.

Breathe in, he commanded himself. Slow and easy. Now breathe out. Relax. Over and over he forced himself to breathe evenly, until the attack, whatever it had been, was finished and his lungs opened enough to allow air to enter.

He rolled over and looked at the clock, to discover that it was nearly five in the morning. Through the window he could see that the sky was starting to lighten with the first few rays of dawn. There was no possibility of going back to sleep now. He would need to get a drape up on this window today if he wanted to be able to sleep in past sunrise tomorrow.

Giving up on sleep, he went to his desk and pulled out a stack of index cards to make notes on what he knew so far about what he was starting to consider The Case of Mary's Death.

**Card 1** : Scraps of paper which indicated that Mary had been forging a passport (but no indication whether it was for herself, or if she had finished it).

**Card 2:** Mysterious deleted emails—he was still puzzling out the one from "Star", but would have to look at it again to decide if it really contained some sort of code.

**Card 3:**  The photo: It seemed to connect John to the Golestan Massacre, but he had no proof of that. Its hiding place indicated that Mary had been the one to hide it, but again, he had no proof. He could possibly ask Lestrade to dust the envelope for fingerprints, but that would lead to questions Sherlock didn't want to answer.

Another option was to email Quill Wood and ask for a meeting. It was risky, considering that Mary had apparently ended up dead after her meeting with him. But out of all the options, that one seemed most likely to lead to the information he desperately needed.

He neatly stacked the cards and tucked them into the back of the drawer in his desk. Throwing a dressing gown on over his pyjamas, he quietly went downstairs to the sitting room, which was still dark and empty as he had expected. He crossed to the bookcase, slipped Mary's laptop out of its hiding place and went back up the stairs to his room with it under his arm.

When he was back at his desk, he opened Mary's email, found the deleted email to Quill1991ad, and composed a new message, with similar wording to the last.

_I need more information regarding our last conversation. Meet me in the same place, Friday 8 am._

After he had sent it, his chin started to itch and the tight feeling returned to his chest. What would John think if he knew Sherlock was investigating this behind his back? John had said he didn't want to know about Mary's past, but Sherlock felt it was important to find out the truth, especially if it pertained to John's safety, and therefore Gracie's too. At least for now, he would keep it to himself, especially as he didn't know if John's involvement went beyond a simple photograph.

While the email was still open, Sherlock found the deleted email from "Star" (which he was sure was a pseudonym) and reread it for clues. This time the code jumped out at him immediately.

_Hey Girl,_

_You and I were always friends, right? Now that I am back, want to go out? Easy as 123, just like paradise, we can walk together on Thursday, see you 1 pm._

_Star_

It was a skip code, obviously. Now that he saw it, he wasn't sure how he could have missed it before. Reading every third word, he put together the following:

_You were right. I want out. 123 paradise walk Thursday 1 pm._

So someone named "Star" wanted out—out of what? Had he or she been one of Mary's fellow assassins? If so, was this person being sincere in their request for help, if indeed that's what they meant by this message? Or had they been attempting to draw Mary out in order to harm her? And what was the connection to the apparent Lance Corporal Quill Wood?

Leaving those questions open for the moment, Sherlock went back to google and did a few more searches regarding the Golestan Massacre, without much success. It was only mentioned in two news articles, neither of which he considered reliable sources. After the first few hits, most of the links led to conspiracy theory websites and crazy-sounding rants in comments on bulletin boards. He clicked on one link, scrolled down, and quickly found himself down a rabbit-hole of commenters agreeing and disagreeing with each other in layered webs of replies.

As he scrolled through, wincing at the atrocious spelling and lack of punctuation, one comment caught his eye:

_it were the militery wut done it thats why they dont wanna cover this story. i herd they found 5.56 mm ammo on sene thats wut british troops use._

Several replies followed which called the commenter a liar in a variety of creative and increasingly vulgar ways. At that point Sherlock quit reading, because there didn't seem to be any point. No other commenter had made a similar claim, which indicated that it was likely spurious. Several more searches yielded no further information on the ammunition used in the massacre (if there had even been one), either confirming or denying the allegation.

He closed the laptop and painstakingly transferred the new information to the cards, then sat and stared at them. What was he to make of all this? Did it somehow mean that Mary had been murdered? Damned if he knew.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't sure what to make of John's behavior over the next few days. He had returned to work at the surgery, which was good, Sherlock supposed. Whenever someone popped in, as happened frequently, he was always friendly and cheerful as ever. However, as soon as the visitor left, he quickly lapsed into silence, often sitting in his chair staring at the wall for hours while Sherlock played with Gracie, changed her nappy, fed her, and took her for long walks to escape the oppressive mood. Sherlock found himself even looking forward to visits from Mrs Hudson, because at least then John would smile and maybe even eat something.

On two evenings, John came home quite late after his shift smelling strongly of alcohol. Once when Sherlock mentioned it, John snapped, "It was only a couple of pints. At least I don't smell like an ashtray. Honestly, Sherlock," took Gracie from Sherlock's arms and stomped off to his bedroom. Sherlock decided to drop it after that, deciding it wasn't worth the argument. John was a grown man. If he wanted to have a pint after work, he could.

* * *

(14 Aug)

At the ungodly hour of 7:57 a.m. on Friday, Sherlock found himself leaning up against a pole near the Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens, pretending to read on his mobile while scanning the environment out of the corner of his eye. The bench across the path from the statue remained empty for the moment. He really hoped Quill Wood showed up, because he found stake outs (especially early morning ones) incredibly boring and he really didn't want this little excursion to have been in vain.

At 8:01, a man approached the bench and sat down. Sherlock assessed him from his post by the pole. Approximately thirty years old, 165 cm tall, about ten stone in weight, wearing a flat cap pulled down over his eyes, hair underneath clipped short in a fade military cut. Back of neck evenly tanned, so this was his usual hairstyle. Had in the past been somewhere much sunnier than London, but the tan was somewhat faded, so not the recent past. His neck was thick, skin chapped from working outside in the weather. Not quite what Sherlock would have expected from a man named "Quill".

Wood jammed his hands in the pockets of his tan jacket and scanned the area, eyes roaming past the pole where Sherlock had been standing. But by that time Sherlock had already moved and was quietly approaching the bench from the other side. Before the man turned back his direction, Sherlock quickly sat down next to him, in his personal space. Wood's head jerked back around, eyes wide, but Sherlock caught his wrist before he could flee.

"Just sit still, Mr Wood," Sherlock said with an easy smile.

"Yer not—I'm mee'in' someone else."

"She was unavailable, so you're meeting with me."

The man's brows knitted. "Unavailable?"

"Dead," Sherlock clarified. The man's eyes widened in horror, so Sherlock quickly added. "I didn't harm her. Apparent accident."

The thin shoulders crumpled. "Oh, God. I knew this was a bad idea. I didn't—I never meant—"

"Erm. . .No one blames you," Sherlock said, patting Wood lightly on the back in what he hoped would come across as a sympathetic gesture. Of course, Mary could have done it much better. She was a master at putting people at ease. If only—no, don't go there, he reminded himself.

"I know who you are, Mr 'olmes." Wood said, once he had got himself back under control.

"Then you know what I do. I'm looking for information for a case," Sherlock said briskly.

"About that woman?"

"Something like that, yes."

"Do ya think she was murdered?" Wood's tone was wary, and Sherlock could see more questions lurking in his eyes.

"I have no evidence to indicate that." Time to get this conversation back on track. He was there to ask questions, not answer them. "Tell me about the photo," Sherlock demanded.

"I took that photo in April 2007," Quill Wood said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a match sheltered from the wind. Sherlock had to close his eyes and mentally block out the tantalizing scent. He hadn't had a cigarette in nearly a week, and oh how he missed everything about it. The ritual of shaking the pack and extracting the cigarette, the smell as he put it between his lips, the first drag—NO! Focus!

"Tell me the circumstances," he prompted, when Wood seemed unlikely to elaborate on his own.

"Look, I told that other bloke—"

"Other bloke?" Sherlock interrupted abruptly. "Who?"

"Never said his name, did he?"

"What did he look like?"

"Shorter than you. Fit."

"How tall?"

"'Bout the same height as me. We was eye to eye. But bigger in the shoulders."

Sherlock made a mental note of the description. Wood was wiry, so the mystery man would have been a few pounds heavier, maybe 11 or 12 stones in weight. "Go on," he prompted impatiently.

"Go on with the story, ya mean?"

"No, tell me more about your visitor. I need all the details."

"Oh, um. . . Funny accent. Sort of mean-looking, I guess."

"Accent? Where from?"

Wood shrugged. "I dunno. German, maybe?"

"Approximate age?"

"Mid-forties, I'd guess. Not much older."

"Hair color? Eye color?"

"Sort of. . . blondish, I think. Maybe turning grey. Cut short. Dunno about the eyes." Wood squinted in thought. "Had a biggish nose. Does that help?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, exasperated at the man's lack of perceptiveness. "All right, go on. Tell me what you told him."

'Well, like I said, I took the photo in April 2007 in Golestan."

"What date specifically?"

"Don't remember." Wood took a long drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke away from Sherlock, who tried not to watch it longingly.

"Did you know the soldiers in the photo?"

"I don't wanna get anyone in trouble. . ."

"You've already distributed this photo. The damage is already done. I'm here to help you undo that damage."

Yeah, all right," Wood said reluctantly. "It was the Major and the Doc."

Sherlock jumped in immediately with "The Major?"

"Chris. Major Chris McMasters, and the doc is Captain John Watson. Him and the doc was always palling around, but I didn't like McMasters, even though he was my C.O. He was a bit dangerous. Acted like he knew everything, swanning around treating us all like a lot of idiots. I seen how he treated people when he thought no one was watching. I didn't understand what the doc saw in him. Wanted to warn him off, but of course he wouldn't have listened to me, seeing as I was only a lance corporal at the time."

Sherlock thought he understood why John would be fascinated with someone who was a bit dangerous, but he didn't tell Wood that. "What was happening in the photo?"

Wood lowered his voice and glanced around before answering. "I seen the two of 'em heading out early in the morning, so I decided to follow. Didn't want the doc getting into trouble on account of McMasters. Caught up with them about a click from camp. McMasters had these fellows down on their knees an' he was shouting something at 'em in like Persian or some'at—"

"Most likely Pashto or Dari," Sherlock couldn't help himself from correcting.

"Yeah, all right. Don't speak it meself. Anyway, I snapped that photo, then ducked down because I was afraid they might see me. Right after I heard two shots. Don't know which one of 'em fired 'cause I high-tailed it out of there. I wanted to tell someone what I seen, but I didn't want to get the doc in trouble. And McMasters was my C.O. He coulda made my life hell. Still could."

Sherlock's mind was working quickly at this point. John was armed in the photo, that much he knew. He didn't think John would shoot an unarmed man who was clearly not resisting, but he found that he couldn't be sure of that. If John felt the man was a danger to someone he cared about. . . "Was this before or after the Golestan Massacre?"

"Dunno. We didn't hear about that until later. I wondered if it were related, but I didn't have no proof. Rumour was them civilians was shot with our ammo, but that's just talk. Never heard it official."

"Did you tell this whole story to the man who came to see you?"

Wood shook his head while grinding out his cigarette with the toe of his boot and lighting another. "Didn't have to. He seemed to already know it."

"And what about the woman who met you here last month?"

"She knew 'bout the photo but not the story. I told her some of it. She was nice."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and opened a photo of Mary, carefully cropped to exclude Gracie in her arms and John who had been standing next to her. "Is this her?"

Wood squinted at the photo, then took the phone from Sherlock's hand and peered at it more closely. "Yeah, I think so. Nose looks a little different. But she was wearing sunglasses so maybe that's it. She really dead?"

"Yes. Car accident."

"Sure it was an accident?"

"That is the prevailing opinion."

The muscle in Wood's temple jumped. He was grinding his teeth, an obvious sign of anxiety, which meant he must know more than what he was telling. "Go on," Sherlock prompted. "What else do you want to tell me?"

A flicker of fear flashed in his eyes. "Look, that bloke who came to see me—he put me off. He knew things, see?"

"Be more specific."

"He knew what creche my son went to. Even knew who his teacher was. He said—he said if I gave him the photo, my son would be safe at school. I don't worry about me, Mr 'olmes, I can take care of meself, but my kid is only four. I gotta protect him. What if that bloke comes back?" Wood's voice was pleading now.

"I'll give you my contact information," Sherlock said reluctantly. "If you see the man again, call—No, don't call. Text me immediately."


	8. Avoidance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, a distraction. This should make everything all better.

When Sherlock arrived back at Baker Street, he found a police car out front of 221B. As he dashed up the stairs two at a time, anxiety rising in his chest, the main thought in the forefront of his mind was that something terrible had happened to Gracie or John.

He flung open the front door to his flat and nearly ran into Lestrade, who was standing in the sitting room, holding Gracie and having what was obviously an amiable chat with John. When he opened the door further he discovered Donovan standing behind Lestrade's shoulder, pulling faces at Gracie to make her giggle.

"What are you doing here?" he snapped, to cover his relief.

"Ah, just the man I'm wanting to see," Lestrade smiled back.

"Why?"

"Got a case for you."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose and suddenly all thoughts of his conversation with Wood were relegated to a back room of his mind palace. "A case?" he said nonchalantly. Didn't want to appear too eager.

"The Oliver case. Father, Robert Oliver, dead; two spinster sisters, Frances and Josephine, each pointing the finger at the other. Looked like a heart attack—"

"It  _was_  a heart attack," Donovan put in, but Lestrade ignored her.

"—We wouldn't have even thought it murder if the older sister, Frances, hadn't come to us with her suspicions about the younger one. I was about to get Molly started on an autopsy, and then damned if the younger sister didn't come to me with a similar story. I don't know that I believe either of them."

"Any other possible suspects?"

"Not really. There is the housekeeper, I suppose. Octogenarian, nearly deaf. She found the body, couldn't get much sense out of her with all the wailing and carrying on."

Sherlock dismissed the housekeeper with a wave of his hand. "I'll have to interview each of the sisters separately," he mused, mind already running ahead to contemplate the information he would need to solve the case.

"Does that mean you'll help?" Lestrade asked hopefully, bouncing Gracie in his arms. "Might be good for the two of you to get out." Behind him, Donovan was rolling her eyes so hard Sherlock thought they might fall right out of her head, which would be interesting to observe.

Oh yes! It would be good for John to get out and have an adventure to take his mind off things. "John, what do you think?" Sherlock asked.

"Go ahead if you want," John responded quickly. "I'm not involved."

This again? How could John turn him down when a case, an interesting case, was being offered up to them like a free meal at the Ritz? "John—"

"We've talked about this," John said. His tone was mild but something in his eyes warned Sherlock to back off. Both Lestrade and Donovan were watching with raised eyebrows.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said lightly. "I know you're not able to assist. I wanted your opinion on whether I should take the case."

"Oh. Well, considering you've got absolutely nothing else going on right now, I think you should."

"Right then," Sherlock said with a nod. "I'll take it."

Lestrade grinned in response, while Donovan just looked mildly annoyed. Although, that rather was her typical expression, so maybe it meant nothing.

"Right, brilliant!" Lestrade exclaimed. "I'll set up an interview with the sisters. Do you want to see the older or younger sister first?"

"Older," Sherlock responded firmly. "She put the investigation in motion. I'd like to know why,"

"Ok, how about tomorrow afternoon then? Two o'clock?"

"Yes, perfect. And I'll need transcripts of all your conversations with both sisters, along with the police report and preliminary medical reports." It was all Sherlock could do to keep from rubbing his hands together in glee. He had been desperately needing something to keep his mind occupied, besides Mary's death. But when he caught a glimpse of John's corrugator supercilii and depressor anguli oris, the excitement was immediately tempered by a pang of anxiety.

On their way out the door, Lestrade handed off Gracie to Sherlock. She immediately wound her arms around his neck and turned to search for Donovan, who covered her face with her hands and popped out with an exaggerated "peek-a-boo!" Gracie giggled and flailed her arms in response, which Sherlock would have found delightful if it weren't  _Donovan_  who had caused it.

* * *

After Lestrade and Donovan left, with an agreement to interview the older sister the following afternoon, Sherlock escaped to his bedroom, sat down with his cards and attempted to add the information Quill Wood had given him. He started a card for the "Man with the biggish nose" and wrote in the pertinent details (such as they were), then added to the cards about the photograph and Mary's visit to Wood, and his observations of Wood himself. Then he sat back and stared at them. He found he could draw no definitive conclusions, but he had a few theories, all currently untestable:

1\. John had been involved in a massacre in Afghanistan, Mary's former colleagues had found out about it and alerted her. She was attempting to investigate the claims when she died.

2\. Someone (the man with the biggish nose) had been blackmailing Mary. He had murdered her when she didn't cooperate. Or possibly it had still been an accident, impossible to tell at this point.

3\. John was the one being blackmailed. Mary had found out about it and had—what? Confronted him? No way to find out without asking John, which was a non-starter at this point. John didn't even know he was investigating, and would be furious if he found out, since he had expressly told Sherlock to drop it.

In frustration he threw the cards at the floor and flopped down onto his bed. Despite the new information, this "case" was at a dead end. It would be good to have a diversion for a while, and the new case was just the thing to take his mind off it. Maybe when he came back to it later he would have a different perspective.

* * *

(14-21 Aug)

The interview with the eldest daughter of Frank Oliver went swimmingly as far as Sherlock was concerned. Fascinating how much useful information one could gather about a person if one would simply take the time to look. Pity Donovan didn't agree.

Frances Oliver, age 64, never married, lived in an inadequate bedsit in Chelsea (shudder), four cats judging by the amount and variety of hair on her clothing. Over-fond of puddings and fry-ups (obvious by her obesity and the grease stains on the right sleeve of her pink, fluffy jumper). Watched too much late-night telly. Favorite programmes were police procedurals, based on her breathless questions and excited "ooh!" when Lestrade gave her the Police Caution. Spoke in a nasal voice with a bit of a Brummie note in the rounded vowels, accompanied by excited hand motions. Sherlock would have thought her a bit thick, if it weren't for her sharp eyes. She was one to watch out for.

Donovan obviously hadn't caught on to her little act, because she continued in a simple line of questioning, rephrasing patiently when Miss Oliver chirped "Sorry?" after each question.

"What did you see that made you think your sister was involved in your father's death?" Donovan asked in a slow, clear voice, as if speaking to a particularly dense toddler.

"Wrong!" Sherlock interrupted, before the woman could respond "sorry?" one more time.

"Inspector—" Donovan began, not even looking at Sherlock.

"The correct question is: what nickname did your father call you?"

Those sharp eyes fixed on him for a second, then she responded "Frankie. He called me Frankie."

"But you prefer Frannie," he said plainly. It wasn't a question. There was no way this woman would voluntarily call herself a nickname more suited to an adolescent boy.

"Well, yes, but I don't see—"

"And your sister? He called her Joey."

"She prefers Josie—"

"Yes, I know. Now, how often do you and your sister fight?"

"Frequently. . ."

"No, the correct answer is never," he corrected her briskly. "You always take your sister's side."

"Miss Oliver," Donovan interrupted, raising her voice a little to talk over Sherlock's next question. "Did you see or hear your sister do anything that might have—"

"Wrong!" Sherlock exclaimed, rounding on her. "I don't understand why you persist in this line of questioning when it is so obviously misdirected!"

"Inspector!"

Lestrade, who was rubbing his temple, said in a weary voice, "Sherlock, could you just. . ."

Sherlock waved him off. "Your father didn't like cats, did he?" he said to Frances Oliver.

"He didn't mind. . ."

"Obviously not. There was no cat hair in his house. He didn't allow you to bring them 'round."

"Miss Oliver, your father was in poor health. Which one of you—"

"Donovan, please do shut up!" Sherlock snapped, then Lestrade was standing right next to him, hand on his chest to push him back away from the table.

"Lay off Donovan, Sherlock," Lestrade hissed at him in an undertone.

"I said please," he grumbled back, not bothering to lower his voice. Who cared if Donovan heard him?

"I mean it," Lestrade said firmly, with a glare for added emphasis.

"Very well." He leaned around Lestrade and affected a civil tone. "Miss Oliver, what this dullard is attempting to get at is—"

"Inspector!" "Sherlock!" Donovan and Lestrade cried together. Oops.

* * *

The case was good, Sherlock had to admit that. It would rate at least a six, due to the tangle of unclear motivations and conflicting stories told by the sisters. Over the next week he attempted to throw himself into the case wholeheartedly, putting aside his research into Mary's death temporarily, but he couldn't help the nagging anxiety he felt whenever he thought about John. He kept his thoughts to himself, however, and tried to be the bulwark of stability and support Molly had assured him John needed. Strength, not vulnerability, would carry them through.

But John was getting better, Sherlock was sure of it. True, he still came home slightly later than Sherlock was expecting on occasion, and several times Sherlock caught a whiff of that sour smell when he got close, but he didn't start shouting when Sherlock nagged him about eating, and he got up and went off to work on a semi-regular basis, all good signs.

Once, when they were sitting down to a dinner that John had fixed, with Gracie sitting in her high chair stuffing mushy peas into her mouth (getting covered with green goo in the process) and vocalizing happily, Sherlock was suddenly hit with a wave of. . .  _something_  so strong that it knocked the air right out of his lungs. After a moment he recognized it as Missing Mary. Missing her sharp mind and quick wit, her gentle prodding and wry smile. She would have loved this moment so much, and now she would never see it again. He could never speak to her again.

Sherlock, gasping for air, looked up at John to see if he felt it too, but John was focused on wiping up the mess covering Gracie with an indulgent grin on his face, so he didn't mention it. It wouldn't do to bring up something awful and spoil such a perfect moment as this, when Gracie was happy, and John seemed to be, if not happy, then at least content.

A call from Mycroft broke his good mood, as such calls were wont to do. He didn't understand why the fat pig insisted on calling instead of texting, as the latter had the advantage of not having to hear Mycroft's snooty, condescending voice.

"What do you want?" Sherlock snapped into the phone, instantly irritated even though Mycroft hadn't said anything yet. He didn't have to say anything; Sherlock could already predict what was coming next.

"Delightful to talk to you as always, little brother," Mycroft responded, but his tone was slightly less sarcastic than usual. It put Sherlock on guard.

"I'm not delighted, obviously. Out with it. What do you want?"

There came the sound of Mycroft shifting in his chair, then a muffled grunt. "I'm checking up on you and John. How is everyone? Settling in all right?"

"Why would you care?"

Another muffled grunt. Sherlock could hear crackling sounds, obviously a fireplace, coming from nearby. He closed his eyes and pictured Mycroft's favorite chair in his study. Somehow the phone sounded closer to the fire than usual. . . "Been skydiving again?" he asked with a smirk. John had looked up from his attempt to coax another bite into Gracie and was giving him a curious look.

"Whatever do you mean?" Mycroft asked.

"You've broken your right arm, quite obviously, as you are holding the phone in your left, which you would never do otherwise."

"Yes, well. Getting pushed into a brick wall will do that."

"That phone-obsessed assistant of yours finally get fed up with you?" Sherlock snarked.

"No. Overzealous security guard was attempting to protect me from a car backfire."

Sherlock snickered. "I hope you fired him."

"I didn't fire her, I promoted her. This is someone who takes their job seriously."

John had put down the spoon and was watching the conversation with a long-suffering expression, which Sherlock didn't understand. Ah yes, talking on the phone during dinner was one of John's pet peeves.

"Right," Sherlock said abruptly. "Everyone is settling in quite well, which you would know if you ever stopped by."

"I've been in Brussels—" Mycroft began, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Must dash. You're interrupting family dinner."

"Are Mother and Dad over?"

"No,  _my_  family. John and Gracie and me," Sherlock corrected him, and rang off. When he looked back up at John, he found that the long-suffering expression had vanished, and had been replaced by a small half-smile that pulled one cheek up. His eyebrows, however, still tilted up and together in the middle. Had he made John happy, or sad? And how? He realized he didn't know.

After dinner that night, Sherlock took a packet of Gracie's favorite snack, some sort of disgusting tomato-flavored puffs, and went into the sitting room with her. She had now mastered the "commando crawl" and was moving on to the "classic cross crawl". Sherlock had learnt their names on the internet, along with techniques to encourage Gracie's gross motor development, so he decided to demonstrate what he had learned, since John had followed them in and appeared in the mood to engage.

"Here, let me show you what she can do," Sherlock said, sitting on the floor with Gracie on his lap. "Scatter these around on the floor just out of her reach."

"On the floor?" John's lip curled in horror.

"Exposing infants to germs may offer them greater protection from illnesses such as allergies and asthma later on in life," Sherlock intoned earnestly.

"Don't quote webmd to me," John shot back. He was grinning wryly, but Sherlock suddenly wasn't sure he trusted that smile. John's smiles didn't always mean what they used to.

"I just vacuumed and mopped yesterday," Sherlock replied.

" _You_  vacuumed and mopped? Where was I? Have you got photographic evidence?"

"Erm. . ." Sherlock studied John's face carefully out of the corner of his eye, unable to determine his real mood. A few moments ago he had seemed happy, but now. . .the corner of his upper lip was pulled up, and a slight crinkle was visible at the corners of his eyes, but his lip had tightened, a sure sign that he was upset.

"I'm joking, Sherlock. It's fine," John said, but now his voice sounded annoyed, so what was he to make of that? "Here, look. . ." John started laying the treats out on the floor in a semi-circle around them, far enough away that Gracie couldn't reach them in her current position. "There, is that all right?"

As if in response, Gracie began to squeal happily and wave her hands toward the treats. She had done this several times before and was obviously learning what to expect.

"Yes, fine thanks," Sherlock reassured him quickly. He lifted Gracie up and positioned her on her knees, both of his large hands holding her feet and hips in that position. As soon as she was settled, she leaned forward, supported her weight on her right hand, and used her left to grab a treat and stuff it awkwardly into her mouth.

"She's a lefty!" John exclaimed, leaning forward on his knees beside them. "Good show, Gracie!"

"It's too early to determine laterality," Sherlock reminded him seriously.

"Oh, I know that, but look at her!" John looked so chuffed that Sherlock had to grin.

"I'm looking, and yes, she's pretty amazing, isn't she?" Sherlock suddenly remembered that Mary was left-handed as well. She would have loved this, Sherlock knew. She loved to show off all of Gracie's new tricks—her first smile, the first time she grabbed for a toy with her fisted hands, the first time she sat up unsupported. Mary would have been right down on the floor with them now.

"She is at that." John's tone had turned wistful, and Sherlock wondered, but dared not ask, if he was thinking about Mary too.

"Fancy a go?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, erm. . .I suppose I could. . ."

"Here." Sherlock held Gracie out and John took her, awkwardly trying to bend her legs to the same position Sherlock had had her in, but she was having none of it.

"Come on, love, let's try it," John urged her, but she only stiffened and reached out for Sherlock.

"Here, maybe just sit her down for a moment first," Sherlock said, leaning in to help. John's chuffed grin had disappeared and his enthusiasm had obviously dampened. Now Gracie was holding her arms out toward Sherlock, mouth open in distress, and the next second she began to wail. Oh, this wasn't good.

John held her out, and Sherlock took her back with a muttered "Sorry, I'll just—Maybe if I try again for a moment, she'll calm down."

"All right, maybe."

When Gracie had quieted, Sherlock tried to hand her back, but John shook his head, arms folded and muscle jumping at his temple. After that, John just watched with an unreadable expression, until finally Sherlock gave up, swallowed the lump in his throat, and changed the subject.

* * *

(21-28 Aug)

The annoying lump in Sherlock's throat lingered, especially when he caught John staring into space, or when John disappeared into his bedroom for hours at a time. At times like that, when he was overwhelmed by a dreadful sense that Something was Wrong, he popped Gracie into the pushchair and took her out for a walk. At least he was getting exercise, and Gracie was getting fresh air. The parenting websites he had been frequenting repeatedly expressed how beneficial fresh air was to babies, although Gracie didn't seem to care either way. As long as she was with Sherlock, she was happy. And it gave John a much-needed break, also good in Sherlock's opinion.

The interview with Josephine Oliver (called "Joey" or "Josie" depending on who was doing the calling) went much the same as her sister's. More sharper-than-expected eyes. More protesting that their father didn't mind cats (not true!). Another grease-stained fluffy jumper (purple this time). Another idiotic line of questioning from Donovan. . .

This time Lestrade took Sherlock out in the hall to whisper/shout at him, bandying about inapplicable words like "respect" and "professional courtesy." Sherlock considered he was doing very well not to roll his eyes and sigh deeply at how ridiculous it all was.

"Is there any possibility John would join you on cases?"

"He refuses, but feel free to try to convince him," Sherlock sulked. Lestrade just closed his eyes and shook his head silently, with his forefinger and thumb pressed to his eyebrows. Perhaps he was having sinus troubles again?

Lestrade would only let him back in the room if he promised to keep his big yap shut, so he sullenly agreed. Then he sat back and watched Donovan flounder and learn nothing of consequence. He himself learned much more by simply observing, which was a book Donovan would do well to take a page from. Why was he surrounded by such morons?

* * *

Even though things were getting better, Sherlock's nightmares continued unabated, all variations on a similar theme.

_John is dancing with Mary at their wedding. Sherlock cuts in, only to discover Mary's face is a hideous shade of purple, covered in cuts and bruises, nose and tongue grotesquely swollen. When he takes her hand, it also turns purple and putrid. Her gown, which had been white, goes greenish-brown around the hem. The discoloration quickly spreads until her whole dress is slimy and dripping with swampy water._

_She leans in and whispers in his ear, "I can't breathe."_

Or

_Mary is leaning over Gracie's cot, wearing a muddy, soaked frock. Sherlock comes up behind her and she turns. Her nose is gone, eyes bloodshot and swollen to slits, mouth a gaping hole. When he gasps and backs up, he bumps into John, who holds a gun to Sherlock's head, finger on the trigger._

_Or_

_Mary is standing in the distance—he can barely make out her face, just the outline of her red coat. A man stands behind her—is it John? Sherlock can't tell, the face seems wrong. The man holds a gun to her head. He is whispering in her ear, but Sherlock can't make out what he is saying. The man pulls the trigger and Mary crumples, turns to dust and blows away in the wind._

Every time, Sherlock woke up sweaty and gasping, half-blind from sleep, clawing at his covers in a vain attempt to remove the obstruction he felt around his chest and throat.

* * *

(28 Aug)

When the phone on the desk in the sitting room buzzed, Sherlock picked it up without looking away from the laptop screen where he was researching poisons that could imitate a heart attack. Molly would be performing the autopsy on Mr Oliver today (finally!), and Sherlock needed to have some testable hypotheses going in.

"Yes?" he said briskly. Arsenic? Too easily traceable. Oxalic acid? Hmm—promising. . .Perhaps Molly could be convinced to give him one of Mr Oliver's kidney to analyze.

"Dr Watson?" a woman's voice inquired. Sherlock pulled back the phone and glanced at it. Ah—John's phone, not his.

"No." Aconite? No report of vomiting, paresthesia, or muscle weakness, so unlikely.

There was a two-second pause on the line, then the caller said, "May I speak to him, please?"

Sherlock cut his eyes to the closed bedroom door. John had gone to bed early the previous evening, directly after he came home from work. It was now nearly nine in the morning, and John had not yet emerged. Sherlock was sure of it because he had come down from his bedroom after being awakened by a nightmare before 5 am, and had spent the last four hours in the sitting room glued to his laptop. "He is. . . unavailable."

"Well, this is Sandra from King's College Health Centre. Do you know if Dr Watson is planning to come in today? We were expecting him at 8:00."

Sherlock pulled back the phone again and stared at it with his eyebrows furrowed. "Erm. . .I would assume he is planning to come in if you expect him."

"Well, please tell him to make it soon. This is the third time in the past two weeks that he has been late. If he doesn't arrive by 10:00 with a very good reason for his tardiness, we will be forced to terminate his employment."

Sherlock pushed back his chair and stood up, eyes narrowed at the closed door. "I'm sure he will be there by 10:00," he said firmly. "Good day." Without waiting for her response, he punched the end button on his way to the door, where he rapped hard several times, unable to contain his annoyance.

"John?" he called. The only response was the sound of Gracie vocalizing unhappily. It was her "I'm not crying yet but I will be in five minutes" noise.

"John!" he called again, a little louder.

"Just a moment," came John's response, his voice hoarse and muffled. Then nothing for thirty-five seconds except Gracie's increasingly demanding grumbles. Sherlock knew exactly how long it had been because he was counting in his head.

After the thirty-sixth second, Sherlock said, "I'm coming in," and immediately opened the door before John could protest. The smell of stale sweat hit him first, followed by dirty nappy, underscored with a hint of alcohol. John lay on his belly on the bed dressed in his trousers and vest, covers half off, arms over his head. Sherlock just stood and stared at him for a minute, scowling in irritation. Even though John had retired early and Sherlock hadn't seem him drink any alcohol, he was obviously suffering from the after-effects of an evening getting pretty well pissed.

"What do you want?" John grumbled into his pillow.

"Time to wake up," Sherlock said tightly. He crossed to the window and threw open the curtain, allowing the full force of the late summer sun to flood the room, which caused John to let out a groan and pull his pillow over his head. Sherlock was having trouble mustering up much sympathy for him, considering the circumstances. "Come on, you've got a shift at the surgery this morning."

"Not until ten."

"No, they've just called. They were expecting you at eight."

John sat up and looked around fuzzily. His hair was sticking up, clothes rumpled. "Really?"

"Yes, really." Sherlock turned his attention to Gracie, who was rocking on her hands and knees and grizzling urgently now, a line of drool hanging from her lower lip. "Aren't you going to take care of your daughter?"

"You do it," John snapped. "You do everything else. She might as well be yours."

"John. . ." Sherlock started, but when he looked around again, he found that John had flopped back down onto the bed with his face buried in his pillow again. Sherlock felt that dreadful, all-too-familiar lurch in his chest again. Something Was Wrong with John, and he had no idea how to fix it. Everything he said or did just seemed to make things worse. He had thought things were getting better, but obviously he had been wrong. And now that sinking feeling of wrongness was overlaid with a frisson of terror: John had been drunk, possibly passed out, alone in the room with Gracie in his care. In Sherlock's mind, all sorts of scenarios presented themselves in that situation, all too horrifying to contemplate.

Without another word, Sherlock picked Gracie up and carried her into the sitting room, closing the door behind him. He couldn't fix what was Wrong with John, but he could change Gracie's nappy, so that was what he would do. A moment later, while Sherlock was finishing the nappy change, the door opened, followed almost immediately by the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut.

By the time John emerged ten minutes later, dressed with his hair wet and slicked down, Sherlock had a cup of tea and toast with jam ready for him on the kitchen table. John edged past him without making eye contact and sat down at the table. For a moment he just stared at the breakfast with his lips pressed tightly together.

Sherlock awkwardly continued to feed Gracie without making eye contact with John. He tightened his grip on the spoon to keep his hands steady. Must hide the whirlwind of emotions that spiraled round and round in his mind, so quickly he could scarcely even recognize them, much less label and deal with them. Contain them to a back room of his mind palace and be strong for John and Gracie, as Molly had advised him.

He heard an intake of breath from John and saw out of the corner of his eye that he had opened his mouth to speak. Sherlock froze with the spoon half-way to Gracie's mouth, but after a few seconds John seemed to slump down into his seat a bit and took a bite of toast with a resigned expression on his face.

"What time will you be home?" Sherlock asked abruptly, just to break the silence. It was almost physically painful to feel such distance from John, as if they were floating away from each other in a vast ocean of despair. If Mary were there, she would have known how to bridge that gap. That seemed to be her specialty, and Sherlock dearly missed it.

John gave a slight wince. Headache? Obviously hungover, judging by the smell and the dark circles beneath his eyes. "Um. . .Should be around five, I suppose," John said dully. Sherlock's chest gave a twist with that now-familiar Something Is Wrong feeling.

"Dinner?" He kept his tone even, not wanting to make things worse.

"I dunno. Haven't thought that far ahead," John's voice was flat, but there was tension behind it, or perhaps that was Sherlock's projection of his own emotions.

"We have leftover curry," Sherlock responded in as matter-of-fact a tone as he could muster.

"Yeah, ok. I don't care."

"Ok." With his fingers clenched around the handle of the spoon, he scooped up another bite for Gracie and held it out for her waiting mouth.

"Will you be home today?" John asked.

"No, I'm meeting Molly for an autopsy."

"Oh. I suppose I'll—"

"I've already arranged things with Mrs Hudson. I'll take Gracie down there when I go."

There was a moment of silence, then John said tightly, "I suppose that's sorted then." A minute later, John got up, tipped most of his toast into the rubbish bin, dumped out the rest of his tea, and left without a word. Sherlock watched the door close behind him with a heavy heart. John seemed angry, but Sherlock wasn't sure what he had done wrong. In fact, he had gone out of his way to do everything  _right_ , but John was angry with him anyway. It wasn't fair.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like this nice long chapter? Hate it? Indifferent toward it? Have a theory or complaint about how John is acting? I'd love to hear it! Just write me a comment below. . .


	9. Mistrust

Sherlock was so distracted during the autopsy of Mr Oliver that Molly had to tell him three times that she hadn't received the toxicology report yet. He was surprised she wasn't angry with him, but she just patiently repeated the information, and he caught himself, cleared his throat and changed the subject.

"Well, have you got a preliminary cause of death, then?" he asked impatiently, as if it were she who had made the mistake.

"Quite obviously acute myocardial infarction." She finished removing the heart from the chest cavity and turned it over in her hands. "There is a fair amount of necrotic tissue. . ."

"Donovan will be quite pleased," Sherlock grumbled.

"However," Molly continued, "When I performed a stomach wash earlier, I found hyperaemia and hemorrhagic foci in the mucous membrane—"

"So he was poisoned," Sherlock said with a smirk. Donovan was wrong after all—at least  _something_  was going his way today.

"I would say it's likely. May be from vomiting, which he apparently did at least twice before his death." Molly responded, tipping the heart onto the scale. "I'll have to wait for the toxicology report, which—"

"Isn't back yet, yes, yes I know," Sherlock snapped back.

"How are things going?" Molly's tone was mild, with a bit of a lift at the end, as if to hide the fact that she was prying. Sherlock decided to try a bit of deflection. It usually did the trick.

"What do you mean, how are things going? With this case?"

"With John, I mean. How is he. . . feeling?"

"Fine," Sherlock responded curtly, in a tone that invited no further questioning. Molly looked up from her clipboard to raise her eyebrows at him, but he clamped his mouth shut and gave her nothing further.

Finally she returned her attention to the corpse. "Edema," she noted, pointing to the left hand, where the third finger showed a deep crease at the base. "I've had to cut off his wedding ring."

"Wedding ring? He wasn't married."

"Widowed," Molly corrected. "He still wore the ring."

"Oh." Of course. John still wore his ring too, Sherlock remembered. He wondered if he would always wear it. John in his seventies, fat and old, still wearing a wedding ring on his finger, that had to be cut off from his dead body. . .Now the picture in his mind turned to Mary's bloated corpse. He closed his eyes, swallowed hard and shoved the disturbing image away.

When he opened his eyes again, he discovered that Molly was watching him with a sickeningly sympathetic expression. As soon as he made eye contact, she quickly looked away, back to the task at hand, which was now the open abdominal cavity. "Cirrhotic," she commented, lifting up the liver to check the underside.

"Oh?" This caught Sherlock's interest. There had been no mention of alcoholism or liver ailments in the police report or medical records. He leaned over Molly's shoulder for a closer look.

"Looks mild. No ascites, no oesophageal varices. . ." she continued. "May not have been diagnosed."

"Ah. But he would have been abusing alcohol."

"Well, he definitely shows signs of scarring and fatty deposits in the liver," she said, pointing to a yellowish mass. "It's certainly indicative. You'd have to ask the family if they knew about it."

"Hmm."

Molly moved on to the spleen, but Sherlock's mind had gone back to John, and that sour whiff he had caught in his room that morning. Was John abusing alcohol? Did that make him an alcoholic? He knew the textbook signs, in a technical, detached sense, but had no first-hand experience with alcoholism. Molly, on the other hand. . .

"How would the family know if he were an alcoholic?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"You know the signs."

"But I've never experienced it before."

"And you think I have?"

"Come now, Molly. It's obvious your father was an alcoholic for years before his death."

Molly was giving him a hard look now, so perhaps he had gone too far. He cut his eyes to the side, chewing on the inside of his lip, and tried to think of a way to placate her. Nothing came to mind. . .

After a moment he heard her sigh. He looked back at her to find her staring down at the face of the corpse with her lips twisted.

"I suppose. . . drinking alone. My dad used to drink in his study after we had all gone to bed." Molly said quietly. She swabbed around the dead man's mouth now, gently, taking care with the task and not looking up. "I didn't know until he was hospitalized the first time and I found dozens of empty bottles in the back of his closet."

Ah, drinking alone. Yes, that was a possibility. Sherlock hadn't found any empty bottles around the flat, but the fact that the bedroom smelled like alcohol even though Sherlock hadn't seen John drink the previous night was an indication.

"Forgetting commitments and missing work is another sign." she continued, while slipping the swab into a sample container. Without a pause she moved on to his fingernails, seemingly absorbed in her task, speaking in a far-away voice. "My dad actually lost his job but we didn't know it until he was in hospital and my mum tried to call in sick for him."

That fit too. Sherlock's chest was starting to get that tight feeling again, and he could feel the sweat forming between his shoulder blades, even though the room was cold.

"Does he. . .does he seem depressed?" Molly asked quietly.

"He's been spending a lot of time in his bedroom," Sherlock answered, before he realized she had changed the subject. But of course she would have caught on to the real reason he was pressing her for details. Molly was always remarkably perceptive, even more so than he was himself when it came to his emotional state.

When she glanced up from her task, he spotted something in her eyes that looked suspiciously like either sympathy or pity. It instantly put him on the defensive. "But things are getting better," he assured her quickly, but then followed up with, "At least, I thought they were." He broke off. Saying more felt like a betrayal to John.

"But now?" she prompted finally, head cocked to the side.

Another long pause followed, while Sherlock stared at the pattern of tiles on the floor and considered how much to tell her. He wasn't one to prattle on about his "feelings," especially when they were so tangled and difficult. But on the other hand, she had been useful before. And she had proven she could be discreet.

"He's been missing work," Sherlock admitted. "I thought things were getting better, and now I find out. . .I've been trying. . ." He trailed off. This level of openness was unfamiliar, and unexpectedly difficult. Molly was still listening expectantly, so after a raspy breath, which turned into a muffled cough, he continued. "I've been trying to do everything right. I keep trying to help, and it only makes things worse."

"It's normal for grief to go through cycles, Sherlock. You can't blame yourself."

"But he should have been over this by now." Sherlock knew his voice sounded petulant, but being aware of it didn't mean he could stop it.

"It's only been a little over a month. It takes time to heal, and you never  _get over_  the death of a spouse."

Sherlock shook his head. "John needs some excitement in his life. If he were to join me on this case, he would forget all about it."

"I don't think it's that simple. Didn't he say no to joining you on cases?"

Sherlock scowled. "He's being ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous to want to stay safe for Gracie, Sherlock. Surely you can understand that?"

"John needs adventure. If he doesn't have a bit of danger in his life, he turns self-destructive. It's more dangerous for him NOT to join me."

"Hmm. Well, is there a way he can help you without being involved in anything dangerous? Like maybe. . . research?"

"Excellent idea, Molly!" Sherlock exclaimed. He knew there was a reason he kept her around. "He could research poisons for this case. No danger there, but he would be doing something useful."

"Good idea. Keep him busy and he'll be less likely to turn to other things to take his mind off it."

"Yes," Sherlock mused. "And after that he can help me with the second search of the younger sister's kitchen—"

"You might want to take it slowly. If you try to move too quickly, he's likely to run the other way."

"You're right, of course. Just the research for now. Legwork can come later, once he realizes how much he's missed it."

* * *

An hour later, Sherlock found himself standing at the door to John's room, with Gracie perched on his hip, attempting to convince himself that it was necessary for him to violate John's privacy and betray his trust for a greater good. He didn't understand why he was so hesitant. Breaking and entering was usually something he did without a second thought.

"It's necessary," he said seriously to Gracie, whose pudgy arm was wound around his neck. "It's a necessary evil. Do you understand?"

Her only response was to twist her tiny fingers into the curls at his nape and gurgle happily, which he took for agreement. Besides, it wasn't as if John had not done this exact same thing to Sherlock, on more than one occasion. Turnabout was fair play, after all.

"Good," he said with a nod. "I'm glad we've had this discussion." After a deep breath, he opened the door and found the bed unmade, John's pyjamas still lying where he had discarded them on the floor near the bureau. He decided to start there.

When he opened the top drawer, he found messily piled vests and socks, which was unusual for John. His army training meant that his clothes were typically all neatly folded and lined up in the drawer. Sherlock closed the top drawer and opened the second, this time finding a lumpy, untidy pile of jeans and trousers tossed in together. The back of the pile was bunched up, and when his hand went out automatically to smooth it back down so he could close the drawer, he felt something hard under the clothes.

Pursing his lips, he lifted up the top layer of jeans to discover a 750 ml bottle of Jameson's Whiskey, approximately half-full. For a moment he simply frowned at it, as if it were a wild animal that must be handled carefully. Finally he laid the jeans back down over it and arranged them as they had been, lump and all.

The next drawer yielded four empty bottles of various types of alcohol, tucked under John's jumpers. Sherlock sat back on his heels and blinked at them in disbelief. How had this been happening under his nose and he hadn't known it? He had thought things were getting  _better_ , John had seemed happier. How had he got it so wrong? The now-familiar lump returned to Sherlock's throat.

Swallowing hard, he pushed the jumpers back into the drawer, hefted Gracie back onto his hip and moved on to the closet. While he stood staring at the closed door, the baby popped her thumb into her mouth and laid her head on his shoulder, with her soft curls tickling his chin. The lump grew, joined now by the return of the tightness in his chest. He turned his head to avoid coughing into Gracie's hair.

When the coughing fit was over, he finally opened the closet door with sweaty hands, to find several boxes still stacked inside, with "bedroom" written on the side in John's handwriting. These had never been unpacked from the move.

A search of the bottom part of the closet yielded no more bottles, empty or otherwise, but he did find the cardboard box containing Mary's personal effects that had been delivered by Lestrade. The lid was partially open, and when Sherlock flipped it the rest of the way open, he found Mary's phone sitting on the top. He knew he shouldn't, but he picked it up and pressed the power button. Nothing happened, so either the battery was flat, or it had been irretrievably damaged in the river. He filed the information away in his "to be considered later" drawer in his mind palace and returned the phone to the box.

The only other things in the box were Mary's keys and purse, and a small overnight bag, which he rifled through and found nothing of interest. Toothbrush, comb, cracked compact--all perfectly ordinary. Disappointed, he dropped it all back into the box and returned the lid to its partially-open condition.

With Gracie on one hip, he reached up to the top shelf and found John's small gun safe, apparently containing his gun based on the weight. That he pushed to the side, and when he did, he discovered a small metal box, yellow and rectangular, tucked back behind it. He remembered that box from when he and Molly had packed up John's flat, remembered wondering what was inside it, and now here it was. It was obviously Mary's, since the worn edges belied its age, and he didn't remember John ever owning it previously. He wondered if John even knew it was here, given that the shelf would have been above his eye level, although not above Sherlock's.

Carefully he pulled the box down from the shelf and hefted it in his hand. It was heavy enough that he could tell something was inside. A small combination lock held it closed, just three dials, three numbers. It would be easy enough to crack, but should he?

He sat down on the floor, Gracie on his lap, the box on the ground in front of him. This box might contain evidence, he argued with himself. It was just property. Property could never be more important than the truth. He picked up the box and scrutinized the lock, while possible combinations appeared unbidden in his mind. His fingers automatically started turning the dials. When he realized what he was doing, he felt a flash of guilt. It wasn't right to violate John's privacy, but this wasn't John's box, he reminded himself. It was Mary's, and Mary was dead, so she couldn't expect privacy anymore.

The final tumbler clicked into place and the box popped open, startling him a bit. He hadn't expected it to be so easy. Chewing on the inside of his lip, he carefully lifted the lid and saw a stack of photographs, obviously old and faded, corners soft from years of handling.

The first, black and white, well-worn around the edges, showed a young couple: a man in a striped suit and a woman in a dark colored frock, with a bright smile like Mary's. Her parents, perhaps? The woman held a blanket-wrapped baby in her arms, and clinging to her leg was a little boy, with short hair that showed up almost white. On the back of the photo, "1974" was written in faded pencil.

He flipped to the next photo, which depicted two children: a boy seated, and a girl standing with her arm around the boy's neck, just as Gracie's arm was wound around Sherlock's neck at that very moment. The girl's chubby thighs peeking out from under the hem of her short frock were also perfect mirrors of Gracie's little legs currently folded across Sherlock's lap. The toddler in the photo had to be Mary, and the boy, whose eyes and mouth shared the same shape, must be her brother. A brother that Sherlock didn't even know she had.

He turned over the photo and found written on the back, in light pencil "Niki och Abbi 1977." Niki? Short for Nikolas, perhaps? and Abbi—could be a nickname for Abigail, or a stand-alone name in some Scandinavian languages (suggested by "och", which he knew could be either Swedish or Danish).

Sherlock lifted up the rest of the photos, which depicted various unlabeled elderly people with wobbly jowls and unsmiling mouths, and checked underneath, but discovered only the bottom of the box, which seemed unlikely to him. Why would she go to the trouble of a locked box only for a few photographs?

He picked up the box and looked underneath, holding it up to protect it from Gracie's reaching hand, but found nothing. Next he took the photographs out and laid them on the floor, out of Gracie's reach, and felt around on the bottom of the box. It seemed the box should be deeper. . .

Gingerly he pressed on the bottom of the box, first on one side, and then the other, then in the corners, where he felt a bit of give. With a slightly firmer pressure, the bottom of the box suddenly popped up.

With eyebrows furrowed, he pried the bottom of the box out and looked into the secret compartment underneath. A tiny, A8-size notebook, with a worn leather cover that snapped shut, lay in the bottom. When he pulled it out, he found a thumb drive tucked beneath it, with the letters AGRA written on the side.

For a moment, he stared at it, scarcely daring to breathe. This thumb drive was a twin of the one that Mary had given to John, that he had destroyed without looking at. Of course there was a duplicate. Someone as careful as Mary would never have all of her eggs in one basket, so to speak. This thumb drive likely held the answer to the mystery that had been plaguing him for weeks, the information he was missing on the cards in his desk drawer.

Gracie's squawk as she tried to squirm off his lap pulled him out of his moment of shock. "No, no, love," he said firmly, shifting her to his other knee. Impulsively he pulled the thumb drive from its hiding place and stuffed it into the pocket of his dressing gown, and, after a slight hesitation, took the notebook as well. Then he quickly reassembled the hidden compartment, gathered up the photos, and arranged them in the box, which he clicked shut and returned to the top shelf of the closet.

The possibility of finding answers had chased all of his previous reservations from his mind. He had to see what was on that thumb drive. With that the only thought in his mind, it was a matter of mere moments before he was seated at his desk, with Gracie on his lap gumming a biter biscuit, and the drive plugged into his computer.

Almost immediately a prompt popped up on the screen.

**Enter Password**

________________________________

Sherlock's fingers hovered over the keyboard. What was important to Mary? After only a slight hesitation, he typed in "Gracie" and hit enter.

The screen lit up red and the words  **INCORRECT PASSWORD. SIX TRIES REMAINING**  appeared. Shit.

Narrowing his eyes, he thought back to the inscription on the back of the photo. Abbi could very well be Mary's real name, given that she had said that AGRA were her initials. With slightly more trepidation, he typed in "Abbi".

Again the screen lit up red and the prompt appeared.  **INCORRECT PASSWORD.**   **FIVE TRIES REMAINING**

Oh, come now, Mary, help me out here, he thought. Don't you want me to know what happened? Well, obviously not, or she wouldn't have hidden the information so thoroughly.

Giving up for the moment on the thumb drive, he lay back on the bed with Gracie sitting on his stomach, and opened the notebook. The first page was blank, but on the second page he found a column of numbers in a cramped, squared-off hand, starting with 012703 and continuing in that vein to the bottom. A second column held sets of letters: AGA, NRA, SPG, DMR, repeated in random order. A third held strings of letters and symbols that were obviously some sort of code that he doubted he could break without a key.

Sherlock squinted at the first column. What could they mean? Some sort of code. . . Suddenly, he heard the sound of the door opening downstairs. Shit! John was home, and he hadn't gone back to make sure he had covered his tracks in the bedroom. Had he closed the closet door? He couldn't remember.

He quickly ejected the thumb drive and dropped it into his desk drawer, along with the little notebook. Then he closed his computer and hurried downstairs to meet John at the front door, with Gracie bouncing in his arms.

"Ah, hello, John," Sherlock said carefully, not sure what sort of response to expect, but John gave him a warm smile.

"Hello, Sherlock. Here, I'll take her," John said, reaching for Gracie, who eagerly came to him, grabbed the sides of his head with gummy fingers, and planted a wet, open-mouthed kiss on his cheek. "Yes, ta for that, love. We'll have to work on your kissing technique."

Sherlock trailed anxiously after John into the sitting room, while John cooed and babbled to the baby. That was. . . good, right? He seemed sober, no lingering smell of alcohol. And he had obviously come home straightaway after work, no stops at the pub along the way.

When he reached the middle of the sitting room, John stopped and turned around to face Sherlock, who halted in his tracks and tried to arrange his face into a neutral expression. Did he know already that Sherlock had been snooping in his bedroom? What had given it away?

"Sherlock, I need to apologize to you."

"Apologize? Oh, erm. . ."

"Yes. I had no reason to be cross with you this morning. I know you were trying to help."

"Well, I suppose. . ." Sherlock trailed off again. How was he meant to respond to an apology? Tell him you forgive him, his mother would always say, after she had forced an apology out of Mycroft for his horrendous behaviour. Sherlock would always refuse, because Mycroft may have been apologizing with his lips, but in his heart he was unrepentant and therefore did not deserve to be forgiven. John, on the other hand. . .How could he not forgive John?

"Right, so. . ." John started awkwardly

"I forgive you, of course," Sherlock interrupted. "Goes without saying."

"Right," John said with a little smile. "All the same, I'm glad to hear it. I need to tell you something."

"What?" That you're an alcoholic? That you've lost your job? That you and Gracie are moving out and taking my heart with you?

"Yesterday was a. . ." John broke off, hugging Gracie a little more tightly. "Yesterday was a hard day for me because it was Mary's birthday," he said all in a rush.

"What?" Sherlock responded immediately. "Why didn't you tell me?!" 27 August—Mary's birthday, of course. . . the previous year they had celebrated with pineapple upside down cake and glasses of milk instead of champagne, and a party hat tied around Mary's almost flat belly for the baby, and John had tipped shots into his and Sherlock's milk while Mary's back was turned, and Mary had danced with both of them and said Sherlock was the better dancer (even though he was half-pissed and stumbling over his own feet) which John had found hilariously funny, and a month later she shot Sherlock in the chest and everything went to hell. . .

"What would you have done, come drinking with me?" John's tone was light, as if he already knew the answer. Didn't he remember that party? Didn't he know how happy Sherlock had been to be accepted by Mary? How content he had been knowing that Mary was on their side, and the baby would make the picture complete. . . Sherlock's chest hurt thinking about it, a dull ache just above his sternum that had never really gone away since the bullet had shattered the bone.

"I might have done," he squeaked out, managing to match John's light tone.

"It's all right," John said with a sigh. "I know you wouldn't—"

"I miss her too," Sherlock blurted out.

John's brow furrowed. He stopped bouncing Gracie on his hip and turned to look Sherlock full in the face for the first time since he had walked in the door. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't realize. . ."

Sherlock swallowed down the lump that had appeared in his throat. Don't fall apart, he warned himself sternly. John needs you to be strong. "I mean, of course I miss her, as I know you do too."

"Yeah. Yeah I do. A lot." The sudden flash of pain in John's eyes was, frankly, terrifying. Sherlock felt that if he gave into that pain, it would be like jumping off a cliff into a bottomless abyss. Unending. Irreversible. All-consuming. He couldn't let that happen. He had to pull John back from the brink.

Sherlock broke eye contact and cleared his throat. "Right, well. Of course we do. But—but we're fine now, right? Gracie's doing well, and you're happy here. Things are good." Please say yes, John, he silently begged. Please say you're fine and you're happy. Please.

John's mouth twisted (depressor anguli oris again). "Right," he said softly, bouncing Gracie on his hip again. "I—I'm fine now. It won't happen again."

"Good." Yes, much better. The pain in John's eyes had receded now, although depressor anguli oris was still active. Much better indeed.

"And I'm sorry about the drinking. That won't happen again either."

Sherlock was a bit taken aback at that. Should he admit to John how much he knew? Or wait to see what John thought?

"In fact, I'll dump out the bottle of Jameson's I've got stashed in my bureau. No, on second thought, that shit's expensive. But I will keep it in the kitchen. Does that sound all right?"

"Yes, of course." Good, settled. Now to talk to John about Molly's suggestion, that he involve John in the case to take his mind off things. "Look, John, I was thinking. . ."

"Yes?"

"You really could do with a bit of adventure, and I could use your help on this case—"

John was shaking his head firmly now. "I've already told you—"

"No direct involvement, just with some research to start with."

"Research?"

"Yes, on poisons that mimic heart attacks. Molly is still waiting on the toxicology report, but the elder Oliver sister is claiming that she saw the younger sister with rat poison in the kitchen the week before the old man died."

"Well, maybe I could help out with that part. But that's it."

"I understand. Now, I think it would be helpful if you sat in on the next interview, perhaps took a look at the house—"

"Sherlock. . ."

"Right. Of course," he backpedaled hastily. "Just some research, then."

"Right."

It was a start, Sherlock thought. A foot in the door. Maybe by the next week John would be ready to take that next step. It really was necessary to get him out of the house once in a while, somewhere besides that boring surgery with the sniffly noses and obesity-related illnesses. A bit of adventure was what John needed to get his blood pumping again and set him firmly back on the path to recovery.


	10. Acceptance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn't acceptance supposed to be the last step in the grieving process? Too bad John and Sherlock don't know that.

**Enter Password**

_Hamish_

**INCORRECT PASSWORD. FOUR TRIES REMAINING**

* * *

The notebook was vexing, to be sure. That row of numbers—what could they mean? After over an hour lying back on his bed searching through his mind palace, Sherlock finally gave up and opened his laptop. Google was for goldfish, but even the best and brightest (himself, of course) was forced to admit defeat every once in a while.

Entering the first number, 012703, led to a variety of hits, all of which Sherlock found unlikely. A part number for a cabinet door handle. A photograph ID# from the Australian War Memorial. An item in the Library of Congress. . . No, no, and no.

He was about to click over to the second page, when one of the hits jumped out at him as being unlike the others: an obituary. Could this have something to do with Mary's former line of work?

He clicked on the link and found himself on an obituary page for the Edwardsville, Illinois Intelligencer, listing death notices for about a dozen elderly people, all of whom appeared to have died of natural causes. He deemed it highly unlikely that any of them had been shot by Mary or any of her associates.

Disappointed, he was about to go back to his search results when the date of the article caught his eye: Monday, January 27, 2003, written just like that. Oh! Could the numbers be dates, but written with the month first like the Americans do? And if so, were they a list of hits that Mary and her team had carried out?

He returned to Google and in the search box entered "27 January 2003 assassination". This time the first hit was for a bombing in Mumbai that killed a controversial ambassador from Sweden. Now that sounded much more likely.

He made a note on a card and moved on to the next number, 021203, which generated a number of hits for the death of the son of the president of Syria, Basil Al-Assad, in a car crash, although none of the articles claimed it was anything more than a tragic accident. The next few numbers also linked to untimely deaths of political figures.

Sherlock closed the laptop and flipped through the little notebook. Eighteen pages were filled (the last date evidently being 5 April 2009), twelve lines per page. If each were an assassination, that meant at least 216 murders were listed on those pages. If the first column were dates, did the second column, with sets of three letters, refer to the assassin? One of the sets of letters was AGA, which was similar to the initials Mary had written on the flash drive. So were all of the lines listing AGA her kills? Scanning the pages, he discovered that over half of the entries were labeled AGA. The rest were mostly SPG or DMR, with a few NRA sprinkled here and there.

* * *

**(30 August)**

Two days later, Sherlock was sitting on the floor with Gracie, totally absorbed in watching her crawl to collect snacks positioned about the room, when John said out of the blue, "Digitalis?"

"Sorry?" Sherlock said without looking up. He gave Gracie's bum a nudge to steady her as she stretched for a bit of biscuit that was just out of her reach.

"Digitalis," John repeated. "Heart medication. The father was already taking it for his heart condition. It's possible he overdosed."

Sherlock scooped up Gracie, who wailed until he grabbed the snack as well, and joined John at the desk, craning over his shoulder at the screen of his laptop. He scanned the list of symptoms: vomiting, diarrhea, edema. . .yes, those all matched.

"What do you think?"

"Why, yes, I think that's likely. Good show, John."

John positively beamed under the praise, which pleased Sherlock no end. He had known John would be useful, and the best part was that John seemed pretty chuffed about it as well.

"I'll discuss it with Molly in the morning, but the symptoms match what Lestrade reported, and what I observed at the autopsy last week."

"Excellent. I'll email you this article, and then I need to go to the shops."

"Good. Buy more milk. We're out again." With an irrepressible grin, Sherlock returned to his fascinating task of exercising Gracie. Possibly he could design an experiment to determine the effectiveness of his techniques. . .

"Already?"

"Mm. And jam too. And bread, I think. Beans. Maybe tea. . ." But what could he use for a control? Perhaps periods of treatment and periods of rest?

"You're joking. I just bought jam." John had gone to the kitchen now and was rifling through the fridge, but Sherlock hardly paid him any mind. His thoughts had gone back to the spinster Oliver sisters—if the father had died of an overdose of his heart medication, which one had done it? There seemed to be reasonable doubt in both directions. Both had access to his medications, both had spent time with him alone, both stood to gain from his death. . . OH! Could they BOTH have been in on it? They had both claimed they had been fighting, but Sherlock had his doubts.

"Sherlock!" John's sharp voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Sorry?"

"I've been asking you if I can use your debit card at the shops?"

"Of course you can. What's wrong with yours?"

"Declined. I just remembered that's why we're out of jam. I was going to buy some yesterday but I didn't have enough money in my account."

That caught Sherlock's attention. "Why haven't you got money in your account?"

John shrugged. "If you must know, I've had to dip into my savings a bit from missing paychecks when I wasn't working. I thought there was more in the account, but life is expensive when you have kids."

"You only have the one child," Sherlock corrected with a frown. John's lips twisted as he very pointedly looked Sherlock up and down until he caught the meaning. "Oh. Well, of course I'll pay my part."

"I know you will. Now where's your debit card?"

"Wallet in the drawer of my desk," Sherlock said, returning his attention to Gracie, who had wormed her way off his lap and was searching the floor for more snack. John was halfway to the stairs before Sherlock suddenly remembered why John shouldn't search his desk drawer. "I'll get it," he said quickly, thrusting Gracie into John's arms on his way past. He didn't look back, but he knew John must be curious as to why he had changed his mind.

After John had gone off to the shops, debit card and PIN code in hand, Sherlock stood in the middle of the sitting room and contemplated the problem of John's bank account. He knew the salary John was earning at the surgery, and he could make a rough estimate of their living expenses based on the items he had seen John bring home from the shops. Sherlock was taking care of the rent. Mycroft had paid for the funeral. Even counting the extra expense for alcohol, John should have had plenty in his account to cover the cost of groceries, especially if he had been dipping into his savings. It didn't make sense for him to not have the funds. Where had the money gone? Was John buying things and hiding them from Sherlock? Not likely, since Sherlock had thoroughly searched his room just two days prior and hadn't found any expensive items hidden away.

Sitting at the desk with Gracie on his lap, he opened John's laptop and stared at the home screen. "It's necessary," he reminded Gracie, who had started to squirm on his knee. He bounced her a bit until she giggled. "Necessary evil, remember? And it's not like he's never done it to me."

Gracie grabbed for the keyboard with chubby, grimy fingers (need to have Mrs Hudson do the hoovering, he thought), so Sherlock pushed it out of her reach and opened the web browser. It was only a matter of two tries before he was into John's bank account. He thought perhaps he should encourage John to change his passwords, but then John would know he had been snooping, so best not.

Still jostling Gracie gently on his knee, Sherlock scrolled through John's bank statement, first the savings account which currently stood at a balance of under ten pounds (surprising, since John had said he had enough in savings to cover Mary's funeral had Mycroft not paid for it); next he looked through the checking account, noting recent deposits of paychecks on a regular basis, and withdrawals at Tesco and Sainsbury, all quite ordinary. There was the occasional small withdrawal from the savings account to cover when the checking account ran low, but not enough to have depleted what should have been a sizable chunk of money.

He scrolled back further, to July, and suddenly spotted a withdrawal of L200, dated 13 July, Sunday, from an ATM at 85 Kings Road. He could think of no reason that John would have been on King's Road on a Sunday at 3 pm. Perhaps the withdrawal had been fraudulent? But wouldn't John have missed the money? Perhaps not if he hadn't checked the balance on the account regularly.

Gracie's hands were reaching for the keyboard again, so he grabbed them and bounced her on his knee, to her delight. 13 July—that date sounded familiar. . . Oh, it was the date that Mary had met with Corporal Wood at Kensington Gardens! Had she been paying him off? That location was somewhat in the vicinity of Kensington Gardens, but there were closer ATMs, so why would she choose that one?

Scrolling back to the previous week, he found another withdrawal for L200 on 10 July at 9:30 am, from an ATM on Markham Street. That would have been before Mary had met with Wood, but perhaps she had been withdrawing money in preparation for paying him off?

Sherlock sat back in his chair and narrowed his eyes at the door to John's bedroom. Mary's phone still sat in the box in the closet. Her phone that may have been used to set up meetings via text. Her phone that was waterlogged, but still may contain some recoverable data. He could remove the card, recover the data, and return it to the box before John even missed it.

Right. Good plan, so why did he hesitate? Why should he feel guilty for taking what was a reasonable course of action? If Wood had been blackmailing Mary, he needed to know, in case he decided to come after John as well.

Pushing aside his doubts, he tucked Gracie in against his hip, squared his shoulders, and went into John's room to fetch the phone, which he found in the box just as he had expected. A bit of dried greenish slime clung to the cover, and the charging port was corroded, but the card slot seemed intact and the card itself had no obvious damage.

He went back to the sitting room and inserted the card into the reader on his laptop. "Error: Unreadable Disk" the screen proclaimed. Nothing he tried changed that, so after a few minutes he gave up. Maybe an expert could recover the data. He knew just the person to try.

Mrs Hudson wasn't home, so he left John a note and took Gracie with him, bouncing her on his lap in the cab. John kept harping at him to take the nappy bag, but this was so much easier. Nothing extra to lug around—everything she needed could be tucked into pockets: Spare nappy and burp cloth in inside pocket of his coat, along with a bottle. Dummy in the pocket of his jacket; keys, phone, and wallet in trouser pockets; pink bunny with squeaker (that John inexplicably called "Harvey") attached to Gracie with a short length of ribbon. He got along just fine without a nappy bag, thankyouverymuch.

It wasn't a long ride to the "home" (if it could be called that) of his expert, a young woman barely out of her teens, called "Tweaker". After Sherlock had been introduced to her talents, the previous year, by one of his Homeless Network, he had connected her with a training program that could help her hone her skills and find gainful employment. In the past several months, she had certainly gained valuable expertise in computer science and coding, although it appeared she used her skills mainly for hacking and had yet to stay at any job longer than a week or two before they turned her out on her ear, typically for use of profanity with her boss, or in one case rewiring the entire mainframe for use in a multi-player version of a game called "Binding of Isaac," which was too morbid even for Sherlock's tastes.

He had the cabbie stop a half-block away from Tweaker's building and made a quick stop at a sketchy-looking food truck. He doubted the "establishment" could pass inspection, but it hardly mattered, as he wouldn't be eating what he bought there, and the intended recipient wasn't picky.

The stairs down to Tweaker's basement flat were dark, and slippery with a brownish slime that Sherlock stepped carefully around, mindful of falling with Gracie in his arms. The baby didn't seem the slightest bit bothered by the dank smell, or the gloom, or the exposed wiring snaking down the walls toward the doorway to the flat. As he reached for the doorknob, the door opened and a man slipped through: thin, pockmarked, with unkempt greasy hair, wearing a stained gray hoodie and threadbare jeans.

"Mouse," Sherlock greeted him with a nod, which the man returned jerkily.

"Oy, Holmes."

"Tweaker in?"

"Yeah, just through there."

Mouse squeezed past them on the steps, flipped up his hood, and headed off down the street, while Sherlock pushed the door open and stepped into Tweaker's domain. A wrap-around desk filled two of the walls, with monitors and CPUs of various sizes and shapes sitting on every surface. Sagging shelves above the desks and along the other walls held electronic devices of all types, most of which Sherlock had no idea of the use for.

Tweaker herself, tiny, dwarfed by the wall of electronic junk surrounding her, sat with her back to him in a broken rolling chair, tapping away at an ergonomic keyboard on her lap. She hit a key and the screen in front of her showed a gory slo-mo of a head exploding.

"Oy, Shezzer," she greeted him with a quick glance that set her blond ponytail swinging. "Who's this little love then?"

Gracie cooed and bounced in his arms at the greeting, but Sherlock pulled her in protectively. "This is. . . my niece, Gracie."

"Aww. . . what a little dolly!" Tweaker's attention returned to the game, where she quickly dispatched what looked like a zombie into chunks of bloodied flesh. Sherlock noticed Gracie's wide eyes were glued to the screen, and he suddenly realized that perhaps this wasn't the best setting for a baby. He quickly turned her so she couldn't see the screen, but she still craned around trying to look anyway.

"Yes, well. I've brought you food." Keeping his body positioned between Gracie and the screen. he held out the bag with the takeaway kebab he had picked up on the way, and she snagged it out of his hand without turning. Another zombie head exploded, splattering the screen with simulated gore.

"You said you wanted me to hack a phone?"

"If you. . . have the time."

In response, Tweaker balanced the bag of takeaway on her knees and reached out with a tattooed arm, snapping her fingers for him to hand over the phone. As soon as he had passed it over, she hit a button to pause the game (mid-head explosion) and extracted the phone card one-handed whilst opening the bag with the other.

After stuffing a wooden forkful of meat into her mouth, she scooched her broken chair to another section of the wrap-around desk and inserted the card into a small card reader attached to a different computer. A few taps later various messages started flashing onto the screen, too quickly for Sherlock to decipher.

Only two minutes had passed (and most of the kebab had disappeared into her mouth) before she ejected the card and held it out to Sherlock between stained, well-chewed fingernails. "Sorry, Shezzer, can't do it."

"You can't restore the information? Too much water damage, then?"

"Nuffin' to restore. The card was wiped."

Sherlock blinked. "Wiped?" Why would the card to Mary's phone be wiped? Was this proof that the car crash really wasn't an accident after all?

"Yeah. Thoroughly. Whoever did that knew what they were doing."

"I see."

"Sorry, mate," Tweaker said breezily, petting Gracie on the head. Gracie caught her finger and pulled it toward her mouth, but Sherlock backed up a step to prevent it. "Can I still have the twenty quid?"

"Of course," Sherlock answered, distracted. He reached into his pockets and came up with a dummy, which he handed to Gracie, then a bottle, then a nappy. Tweaker folded her arms and watched him with an amused smile on her face while he shifted Gracie to the other arm and felt around in his trouser pockets until he finally came up with his wallet. He extracted a 20 pound note and handed it to Tweaker, who folded it neatly and slid it into the pocket of her skin-tight jeans.

"Always a pleasure, Shezzer," she said, already turning back to her game, so he hefted Gracie to his hip, with a mental note to disinfect her when they got home, and left.

There were no cabs out front of the building, so he was forced to walk, with Gracie bouncing on his hip, down the rubbish-strewn pavement, looking sharp to avoid puddles from the recent rain. Gray-brown mud splashed onto his trousers when he misjudged and put a foot into the water. With a hand up to shelter his eyes from the wind, he kept scanning the area carefully. He wasn't afraid for himself. He knew he could handle whatever came, but with Gracie in his arms, he felt keenly vulnerable.

Half a block on he spotted a man walking his direction, still about a hundred meters ahead, and for a brief moment he thought it was John; although he couldn't make out the face, the figure had a similar build, the same sandy hair. His heart gave a lurch. If John was there, it could only mean that he knew what Sherlock was up to and had come to confront him about it.

While Sherlock dithered on the pavement, unsure of whether to duck into an alleyway to hide, or to keep walking because John must have already spotted him, the figure turned and entered a shop, leaving Sherlock wondering if it truly had been John or not. The next second a cab appeared and he waved it down with a palpable sense of relief.

In the cab his phone buzzed in his pocket. That might be John texting, he thought, but then it kept buzzing. Someone was calling him; possibly Mycroft, as he was the only one who seemed unable to get the hint that Sherlock vastly preferred texts.

By the time he had shifted Gracie around enough to extract the phone, it had rung three times. He glanced at the screen. Unknown number, perhaps a new client? It was worth a gamble.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said briskly into the receiver, gently pushing away Gracie's curious, slobbery fingers.

"Mister 'olmes, it's Corporal Woods. Quill."

"Ah, Corporal. I've been meaning to contact you."

"'Bout what?"

"You failed to mention that you were blackmailing the woman who met you."

"What? I never did! I didn't want to hand over those photos, Mr 'olmes. That man threatened me." Wood's voice sounded truly panicked. "I'm calling you because someone showed up at my son's school."

"Man or woman? Description?" Sherlock demanded instantly.

"Woman. The office staff said she was white. Skinny. Dressed all up fancy. Lots of makeup. Left my kid a present."

"What was it?"

"A doctor's kit. He's all excited, said it was a birfday present. But I'm scared outta my wits, Mr 'olmes."

"Have you got a firearm?"

There was a brief pause on the line, then Wood said hesitantly, "that's illegal."

"I'll take that as a yes. I'll arrange for a security team to check in with you, Corporal. Please don't shoot them."

He rang off, then scrolled through his list of contacts. Mycroft's security team would be efficient, and brutal, but then he would have to suffer through a lot of questions. And lately Mycroft's team seemed determined to cause more harm than good (perhaps that wasn't fair—if Sherlock were Mycroft's bodyguard, he might be tempted to knock him down under the guise of "saving him" too).

His homeless network, on the other hand, was less efficient, not to mention less clean, but they didn't ask questions. And best of all, they worked for egg mayonnaise sandwiches.

* * *

When Sherlock got home, John hadn't arrived back from the shops yet, which was good. It gave Sherlock time to return the phone to the box, after which he went up to his room, Gracie in tow, to add information to his cards.

After changing from his muddy trousers to pyjama bottoms and dressing gown, he laid out all of the cards he had done so far on his unmade bed. Then he wrote on a blank card "Phone wiped." He didn't know where to put that card in that array, so he laid it off to the side.

Taking another blank card, he wrote, "Mary withdrew L600," and the date and place each withdrawal had been made. After a moment's hesitation, he added "Not a payoff for QW". Despite the similar timing, he was convinced that Wood's protest had been genuine and he had not been blackmailing Mary.

He held the card in his hand and looked over the rest of the array on his bed. The card noting the coded message from "Star" caught his eye. Could Mary have been withdrawing money for whomever that was? He made a space and set down the new card next to that one. The timing of the first withdrawal was the day after Mary had presumably met up with Star. If "Star" had wanted out, he or she might have needed money, and Mary may have been helping out.

Before he could follow that reasoning any further, he realized that Gracie, who had been sitting near the headboard playing with Harvey, had grabbed the nearest card and was gumming it with a contented hum.

"Gracie, let me have that, you naughty thing," he chided gently. He dug around in his pockets and finally came up with her dummy, which he handed to her in exchange for the card. Her drool had soaked through about half the card, rendering the writing smudged and barely legible. Hoisting Gracie up onto his lap, he took a new card and started copying out the information, which was for the mystery man who had visited Quill Wood.

When he was finished, he narrowed his eyes and contemplated what he had just written.

**Mystery Man**

**Age: Mid-forties**

**5'8", more than 10 stone**

**Short blond hair, turning gray**

**Biggish nose**

**Accent**

**Visited QW to obtain photo**

**Threatened QW's son?**

Leaving aside the accent, that almost could have been a description of John. The man he had seen today in the street by Tweaker's den—Sherlock hadn't been able to see his face. Could it have been this mystery man and not John as he had thought?

Another thought suddenly followed: if the mystery man had been following him, then Tweaker, and possibly Mouse as well, would be in danger, especially if the man thought they had information that would be useful to him.

He searched his pockets, extracting nappies, tiny bodysuit, rolled socks, and bottle, before he finally found his phone, and dashed off a text to Tweaker.

**Checking in. Your status?**

Then he sent one to Mouse as well, just to be sure.  **Please check on Tweaker and report.**

He sat and stared at the phone for a moment, waiting for a reply that didn't come, until he heard the sound of the door open downstairs, then John's heavy tread. Loaded down with the shopping, no doubt. Experience had told him John would appreciate an offer of help in such circumstances. And perhaps whilst he was helping, he could deduce why John had taken so long at his task. Tesco was just around the corner, after all, and Sainsbury was only a block further on. It seemed odd that the shopping would have taken so long, unless John had made an unscheduled stop along the way.

He quickly gathered up the cards and started to tuck them back into the desk drawer, but then thought better of it and stuffed them in the compartment in the back of his bedside table instead, next to the photo, thumb drive and notebook. Swooping Gracie up from the bed (which caused her to giggle and screech in delight), he hurried down the stairs in time to meet John at the top step. John was carrying four—no, five—carrier bags filled with food, including at least a half-dozen items Sherlock had never seen him bring home before.

"Ah, John. How was the shopping?" he asked, relieving John of two carrier bags and leading the way to the kitchen, where he deposited them on the counter. He turned and gave John a quick once over as he entered the kitchen, brief but thorough enough to spot a few clues:

—Redness around John's eyes—hadn't been there before he left for shopping. Wind exposure the most likely explanation, understandable since he had walked at least two blocks.

—His trousers were loose and were being held up by a belt that was buckled as tightly as it would go, which hadn't been the case the previous month. There was a crease in the belt indicating that it had previously been buckled on a looser notch. Sherlock had observed that John had been eating more regularly lately, but apparently was still losing weight.

—Dried gray-brown mud on his shoes and flecks of mud around the hems of his trouser legs. Curious—the mud in the vicinity of Baker Street was more of a chocolate brown color, while this mud definitely had a grayish caste. In fact, it matched the color of the mud Sherlock had found on his own trousers after his outing today.

When he scanned back up, he noticed that John had folded his arms, and then continuing up to John's face, he found it holding an odd sort of expression, with his lips twisted slightly, eyebrows raised.

"Ah. Erm. . ." Sherlock broke off his scrutiny, because it dawned on him that the expression meant he had been caught. John hated to be deduced. He cast around the kitchen for something to say, and his gaze fell on one of the carrier bags that had fallen open on the counter. "I see you've bought cumin."

Another second of tension, and then John's arms relaxed, lips curved up into a slight smile. "Yeah, thought I'd try a new recipe tonight."

"Oh?" That should be interesting. John only cooked complicated meals when he was in a good mood, which meant that lately their suppers consisted mainly of beans on toast or soups from a tin. It was always entertaining to watch John cook, mainly because his technique was a curious mix of overconfidence and lack of expertise, which led to him picking complicated recipes with a long list of ingredients, only to come out with a final product that in no way resembled the photo on the website (case in point: John's risotto, which had the consistency of rice soup). Usually the flavor was fine, so Sherlock counted himself lucky to be able to eat the mistakes.

"Mm. Cod masala salad. I remember you like cod, right?"

"Sounds delicious. I'll be happy to watch Gracie while you do that." Sherlock settled into one of the kitchen chairs with Gracie standing on his lap, her hands wrapped around his fingers to steady herself.

John smirked. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Well, you can watch if you like. Just don't laugh when I bodge it up as usual."

"We'll eat whatever you cook, won't we, Gracie?" He bounced Gracie on his knee, which caused her to giggle in delight.

"I'll hold you to that," John said, turning to the task of putting the shopping away. A neat stack of ingredients appeared on the counter next to the stove. Sherlock continued to bounce Gracie while he watched John work. It reminded him sharply of sitting at John and Mary's kitchen table holding Gracie, watching the two of them work together like an intricate dance in the small space. Mary's laughter and gentle teasing at John's mistakes. John's rueful grin at yet another casserole with odd lumps and mistimed side dishes. It was such a small thing, so domestic and ordinary, and yet, now that it was gone, how he missed it.

"What were you doing upstairs?" John asked suddenly.

"Hmm?" Sherlock, attention focused on watching John attempting to cut up a chili without actually touching it (and remembering a time when Mary had rubbed her eye with chili oil on her fingers and had to have it washed out under the faucet, coming up dripping like a drowned cat), was caught off-guard by the question.

"Just now, when I came home. Were you researching more about Digitalis?"

"Oh, yes, Digitalis. I think you're on to something there. I was just about to text Lestrade and suggest he look into it. In fact. . ." He wrapped one arm around Gracie's waist while searching around in the pocket of his dressing gown for his phone. "I'll text him now."

"Good." John, having given up on chopping the chili into regular sized pieces, started pulling out pots and pans with quick, efficient movements.

Just as Sherlock was about to text Lestrade, his phone buzzed in his hand.

**Incoming text from Mouse.**

_Tweakers fine. Why?_

Well, that was a relief. He quickly texted back:  **Have someone stay with her please. Text me if you see anyone lurking about.**

He heard John's voice, and tuned back into the conversation in time to hear him say, "Tell him to have Molly check for hyperkalemia." John frowned at a skillet that was obviously too small, replaced it in the drawer, and pulled out another larger one.

"Yes, good," Sherlock said as he sent the text off to Lestrade. "You're handy to have around."

John didn't respond to that, but Sherlock glimpsed the side of his face and could see that he was grinning while he worked. And that was VERY good.

* * *

(3 Sept)

**Enter Password**

_John_

**INCORRECT PASSWORD. THREE TRIES REMAINING**

* * *

Next was the ancient housekeeper's turn for an interview. If the sisters were in their sixties, this woman must have been pushing ninety. Sherlock observed her from his position in the corner of the interview room: wispy white hair under a black pillbox hat, plain black frock, sensible shoes. Despite her wrinkled face, her eyes were shrewd, dark brown buttons. She spoke with a slight accent. Corsican? No, Sicilian, Sherlock decided.

"I had been in the employ of Mr Oliver for seven months," she said crisply in response to a question from Donovan.

"How well did you know his daughters?" Donovan asked, scribbling an illegible notation on her pad.

" _Frankie_  and  _Joey_? Well enough." Her mouth turned down at the corners when she said that. So she didn't like them. Interesting.

"What jobs did you do for Mr Oliver?" Lestrade asked. No! Wrong question!

"What is your impression of the sisters?" Sherlock interrupted before she could answer Lestrade's question. Lestrade's eyes flicked to him and he gave a little huff, but didn't correct him, so it was fine. Now to see if the old woman would tell the truth.

The housekeeper fixed those bright eyes on him for a moment, as if she were deducing him as well, then she said evenly "I don't like them much." Ah, a truthful answer. Excellent!

"Just one? Or both of them?"

"They are so much alike that it is hardly any use talking about one without the other. Thick as thieves, those two. Always whispering to each other."

Interesting. This woman might be useful. "Do you think them foolish?"

"I should say not," the housekeeper stated emphatically, and turned back to Donovan as if dismissing him, although he had his next question on the tip of his tongue.

Donovan spoke first before he could get it out. "Where were you employed before you came to work for Mr Oliver?"

"That is a ridiculous question," Sherlock snapped.

"Inspector—" Donovan started, but Sherlock interrupted her.

"You found the body, did you not?" Sherlock said to the housekeeper. A flash of something passed over her face. Interesting. File that away for later. "Did you notice anything different about the bedroom?"

"I was rather distracted."

"Specifically his medication," Sherlock pressed her.

"I don't know."

"Where did he keep his Digitalis?"

"Well, on his side of the bed, but I don't remember—"

"And was it there when you found his corpse?"

"She's already told you!" Donovan exclaimed. Sherlock held out his palm.

"Shut up, Donovan!" Something the woman had said had triggered an idea, but now that idiot Donovan had interrupted his train of thought. What was it?

"Inspector!" Donovan cried. And then he felt Lestrade's hand on his arm, pulling him back.

"You've got to back off Donovan a bit," Lestrade hissed in his ear. "Yeah? Like we talked about."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said impatiently. He realized now why the maid's words had sounded off. If Lestrade would just let go of him. . .

"Watch yourself," Lestrade warned with a final glare. Sherlock shook off his hand and rounded on the woman.

"His SIDE of the bed?" he questioned, eyebrows raised.

"His bed," the housekeeper corrected herself smoothly, but she was lying, obviously.

"When was the last—" Donovan started to ask, but Sherlock interrupted her again.

"That's not what you said. If you were sleeping with your employer—" He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "—although dear God don't ask me how or why—"

"Inspector!" "Sherlock!" Donovan and Lestrade cried simultaneously. Oops, obviously not good.

 


	11. Bargaining

**(7 September)**

**Enter Password**

_Sherlock_

**INCORRECT PASSWORD. TWO TRIES REMAINING**

* * *

**(10 September)**

_He sits at a round table with his feet propped up on a folding chair, hiding his lonely and left-out feelings behind a scowl. Bright music is playing, and all around him people are dancing, laughing, hugging each other, telling stories, but he has no part in it. He glumly sips at his flute of champagne and contemplates his knees, not even wanting to look up lest someone notice he is unhappy and force him to join in on the fun when he_ _**doesn't feel like it.** _ _But Molly is distracted with Tom, and Mrs Hudson is dancing with Lestrade, and John has Mary, and no one is paying him any mind._

_A shadow falls across his legs. He glances up to see Mary, standing in front of him with her hands on her hips, lips pursed in amusement. Her face looks normal, he notes with relief, although her hair is wet and dripping into her face. "Stop pouting," she says, and holds out her hand._

_With a half-smile, he lets her haul him to his feet and lead him out onto the dance floor. She leaves a trail of wet footprints behind her. When she turns around, her face has taken in a purplish tinge and her eyes are bloodshot and rimmed with black. She lays her hand on his arm, leaving a damp spot, leans in and whispers in his ear, "I can't breathe. . ."_

Sherlock woke up gasping and choking, clawing at his throat and chest, which had gone tight and itchy. He kicked off the sweat-soaked bedcovers and sat up, supporting himself on his trembling arms. His attempt to suck in a deep breath ended up with a horrible noise and a coughing fit instead. Things were getting better, right? So why was he still having dreams like this? And why couldn't he breathe?

Still coughing, he picked up his phone off the bedside table to check the time (2:14 am), and found a text from Lestrade, received almost an hour previous.  _Miss Oliver #1 found dead. Care to help us interview Miss Oliver #2? 8:30 am at the precinct._

He texted back  **I'll be there** , dropped the phone onto the table, and flopped back onto the bed. Now that he had woken up a bit, his sweat-dampened pyjamas were chilly, so he pulled the blankets up to his chin.

Memories of the nightmare had been pushed aside by thoughts of the case. If the elder sister was dead, then perhaps the two of them hadn't been in on it together. Perhaps the younger sister had killed them both? This case had just got a bit more interesting.

* * *

At 8:27, Sherlock was sitting outside the interview room at NSY, cup of coffee in hand, waiting for Lestrade to show up with their suspect. While he waited, he flipped through the police report that Donovan had begrudgingly supplied for him. Her handwriting was difficult to decipher, but it appeared that Miss Oliver #1 (Frances) had been visiting the home of Miss Oliver #2 (Josephine) late the previous night. There had possibly been some sort of altercation, and somehow Frances had ended up in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs. Fallen, or pushed? Sherlock rather thought the latter, but he decided to reserve judgment until he had spoken to Josephine Oliver. She would give herself away, he was sure of it.

He returned the report to Donovan's empty desk and picked up the case file on Mr Oliver, which was sitting unattended, as she had apparently gone off somewhere. Sitting back down in the uncomfortable folding chair, he opened the report and found on top a preliminary toxicology report, which indicated that John had been right: serum digoxin concentration of 2.3 ng/mL, enough to cause heart failure. He was sure John would be delighted to hear it.

He rifled through the pages, noting little details that caught his interest. The elderly housekeeper had just the day before been sacked by the sisters for theft—she had been found in possession of a ring of little value, which she had apparently stolen from the father. If he were deciphering Donovan's untidy scrawl correctly, the previous housekeeper had been sacked for the same reason, which made Sherlock suspicious. Two housekeepers in a row stealing only trinkets when the house was filled with much more valuable items? What if instead they had been  _gifts_  from the father? He was certain the current housekeeper had been sleeping with the father; what if the previous one had as well?

It was nearly 8:35 (an eternity at that time of the morning) before Lestrade arrived, leading a crumpled and distraught-looking Miss Oliver #2: eyes red, holding a lacy hankie to her nose. Lestrade's hand was on her shoulder and Sherlock heard him say, "I'm so sorry for your loss" as they approached.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the pathetic figure. Her shoulders were drawn in, hand and handkerchief covered her mouth, both signs that she was trying to hide her true feelings and protect areas of vulnerability. It was obviously all just for show. If he hadn't been certain before, he was now.

She edged past Sherlock without making eye contact as she entered the interview room, yet another suspicious sign. And Lestrade was obviously falling for her act, considering the look of sympathy on his face. When he passed Sherlock, Lestrade mouthed "be nice" at him. Ha!

Lestrade got the woman seated, with a level of solicitude that Sherlock found completely unwarranted, and Josephine was quite obviously milking it for all it was worth. Donovan, who had slipped in behind them, sat in the seat next to the OAP and placed her hand on the old woman's wrinkled one. Disgusting.

Sherlock remained standing with his arms folded, left his coat on even though the room was warm, and let Lestrade start off the interrogation while he began making deductions: she was fully dressed in yesterday's clothing even though the incident had happened in the middle of the night. Hair had been done the previous day, and had not been slept on. Makeup unsmeared, so she had not been crying, although she kept dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief in an obvious attempt to appear as though she had. The incident had happened at her house, indicating her sister had come to her.

While Sherlock was making his observations, he heard Donovan making useless sympathetic noises, which caused the woman to grip her hand and boo-hoo into her handkerchief.

"Miss Oliver," Donovan said, in a gentle voice. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Oh, yes, my dear sister! Oh, Frances!" the old woman cried. "How could I have ever thought she had anything to do with Papa's death?" Her voice trailed off into a choking, but dry-eyed sob.

"You don't believe that now? Would you like to withdraw your accusation?" Donovan had her notepad out and was taking notes, although Sherlock was unable to read her illegible handwriting.

"I was sound asleep when Frances came to me to confess that Papa had asked her to refill his heart medication, although she knew he had several pills left and didn't need a refill. She thought at first that I had told him to order more, but I hadn't." Josephine gazed at Donovan guilelessly through wide eyes. "You must believe me, I had nothing to do with it. Frannie knew that. She figured out he must have been planning to take them all and end his life."

Donovan made a notation on her pad. "Had he been depressed lately?"

"Oh, yes. He had never been himself after Mummy died. I should have known that he was suicidal. . ." Her handkerchief came up to cover her mouth as her voice trailed off again. Her shoulders were shaking, but her eyes were still dry.  _Pat pat pat_  went Donovan's hand.

"There there, Miss Oliver, you couldn't have known."

"And then—after Frannie and I had talked, I went back to bed. I didn't know she had even fallen down the stairs until the police showed up at my door. I've been beside myself ever since."

Sherlock had had enough. "I am curious about one or two things," he cut in impatiently.

Miss Oliver's eyes, which had been locked on the table, flew to him, and for just a fleeting second a look of terror crossed her face. Then she seemed to recover herself and the mask of grief fell again.

"You say you were asleep when your sister came over, and yet you are fully dressed and your hair hasn't been slept on."

"I wear a hairnet to bed—"

"And your stockings, I suppose."

"Well, no—"

"You say that your father was suicidal over your mother's death, a death which happened seven years ago."

"He was distraught. One never gets over the death of a spouse—"

"And yet he was recovered enough to have two love affairs in the intervening years. In fact, he was planning to marry the latest girlfriend, wasn't he? That ancient housekeeper."

Josephine Oliver just goggled at him. It was quite obvious he had struck a nerve this time.

"He wanted to marry girlfriend number one, but you and your sister ran her off."

"We didn't! She—she left on her own."

"But this one didn't, did she? Tough old bird. And your father was intent on marrying her. That's why you decided to kill him and pin it on your sister."

Josephine was now shaking her head violently. "I didn't!" she cried. She twisted the handkerchief in her hands, a sure sign she was lying. Behind her shoulder, Lestrade had turned an interesting shade of purple. Perhaps an allergic reaction? He was scratching at his neck in a horizontal motion, indicating some level of distress. More information needed, but he couldn't allow himself to become distracted by that. He was nearly there. Just a few more pushes and she would break wide open.

"Your sister was on to your game. She knew you had requested the early refill. She called and said you needed to talk. When she showed up, you were ready. You pushed her down stairs and murdered her, just as you had murdered your father!"

"It was an accident!" Josephine wailed. "I didn't push her, you horrible man!" She broke down and began to sob into her handkerchief, real tears this time, although Sherlock was sure they were crocodile tears.

He was about to pounce on the inconsistency in her story, point out that she couldn't have known it was an accident if she were asleep when it happened, when he felt Lestrade's hand clamp down on his bicep.

"OUT!" Lestrade hissed in his ear, and started hauling him bodily toward the exit.

Sherlock twisted around and threw over his shoulder, "An accident? And how could you know that?!" but by the time he had finished the sentence, Lestrade had towed him out into the hallway and shut the door behind them firmly.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"You heard it, didn't you?" Sherlock shot back hotly.

"Heard what, you berating a distraught old woman who has just lost her only remaining family member?"

Sherlock blinked. "But she was ready to confess!"

"If she had anything to confess, Donovan and I could have got it out of her, without turning her into a bundle of nerves. I didn't call you in here to destroy my only witness!" Lestrade was whisper-shouting now, the cords on his neck stood out, and a vein pulsed purple in his temple. This was Lestrade more angry than Sherlock had ever seen him.

Another blink. Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together into a frown. "Not good?"

"Very not good. In fact, very bad."

"I can try again."

Lestrade shook his head. "No, I can't—Sherlock, this isn't working out. I can't have you here alone anymore."

"I'm not alone," Sherlock pointed out. "You're here."

"But you don't listen to me, do you? I was trying to tell you to knock it off, but you ignored me. You need John, or someone like him, that you'll listen to. A handler."

"John won't do it."

"Then Molly maybe. Someone who'll let you know when you've gone too far, someone you'll listen to."

Sherlock scowled, but Lestrade just folded his arms and glared at him mulishly. It was obvious that there was no way he was getting back into that room without a handler. And as Lestrade and Donovan seemed determined to bodge this up and let a guilty woman walk free without his help, John would simply have to give in and join him on the case. There was no other way for it, as he happened to know Molly was working at the morgue until two. Whom else could he rely on? No one—only John.

Sherlock decided not to call John, because forewarned is fore-armed. It would be better to simply show up and demand that John accompany him. In fact, the best approach would be to call Mrs Hudson ahead of time and arrange for her to care for Gracie. Then John would have one less possible excuse.

So in the cab, he called Mrs Hudson, who agreed immediately, although she did say, "Isn't John home now? I've heard him walking about up there."

"He's going to be busy in a few minutes."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, dear. You know he said—"

"Just be ready to babysit at half ten, please, Mrs Hudson. I'll take care of the rest." And he rang off without giving her a chance to respond. Tiresome woman.

When the cab pulled up in front of the flat, Sherlock jumped out into the rain, told the cabbie to wait, and took the stairs two at a time up to 221B. He noted with satisfaction that his breathing was better, as he couldn't have done that less than a month ago. Giving up cigarettes, as hard as it had been, was the right choice.

"John, get your coat," he announced without preamble as he strode confidently into the flat. John, who had been sitting on the floor with Gracie while she crawled around, looked up in surprise.

"Where are we going? I was just about to fix Gracie a snack."

"Mrs Hudson can do it. I need you at an interview."

"What, as in a job interview? Because I know you can't be talking about interviewing a witness or suspect, given that I said I wouldn't do that," John said mildly. He placed his hands at Gracie's waist to support her as she pulled herself up on the coffee table, where Harvey the rabbit lay just out of reach.

"John, I need you."

"Why on earth would you need me? I'm sure you've already got it all figured out."

"I do, of course. But—" Sherlock broke off, suddenly humiliated to admit what had happened, that he was unable to get along with others without John. Could he simply say  _I want you there_? But that was also embarrassing, to admit that he missed John and wanted his company.

"But what?" Since Gracie was unable to reach the rabbit when she stretched out, John nudged it a few centimeters closer.

"Lestrade said you needed to come with me," Sherlock admitted.

John raised an eyebrow at that. "Why?" he asked simply. For a moment he just held the eye contact, until Sherlock broke it off in embarrassment.

"I suppose I may have said a few things that were. . . untoward," he said airily.

"Ah. So you don't need me. You just need to learn to behave yourself." John's tone was still mild, but Sherlock sensed a bit of steel behind the words.

"John—"

John shook his head emphatically. "I've already said I can't do this." He turned back to deal with Gracie, who had managed to get her hands on John's mobile and was dragging it toward her mouth.

That ebullience Sherlock had felt on the way up the stairs gave way to despair. John had to do this. Why couldn't he see that? What would Sherlock have to do to convince him? Completely humiliate himself? Well, he was willing to do just that if it meant John would join him, like it used to be. "John, please," he begged. "I—I need you. I can't—Just—please?"

For a long moment, John just sat and stared at Gracie. Was he angry? No, his eyebrows were neutral, and he was chewing on his lip instead of pressing his lips together as he did when he was angry. Indecisive, then? Perhaps Sherlock could help him make up his mind.

"It's only an interview of an old woman," Sherlock wheedled. "Very. . . non-threatening."

The corner of John's lip tipped up, just a fraction. On the right track, then. Forge ahead.

"But exciting." Careful, don't take it too far. The last time he had suggested that John needed adventure to get his blood pumping, John had broken his nose. "But safe. Perfectly safe." He leaned over a bit to see John's face better, and discovered that he was grinning crookedly. That's the spirit! "So? Shall I text Lestrade to say we're coming back?"

"I've got no one to leave Gracie with—"

"I've told you, Mrs Hudson has already agreed to take her," Sherlock interrupted breezily, scooping up Gracie off the floor and heading toward the door with her. "Bring your jacket. It's cold out," he tossed back over his shoulder at John, who had picked up his muddy shoes from the entryway.

"You've already arranged childcare?" John called after him, but Sherlock was already halfway down the stairs with Gracie bounding on his hip.

"Come, John!" he called without pausing, and was gratified to hear the sound of the door closing, then John's footsteps following him down the steps.

Even before he climbed into the waiting cab, Sherlock dashed off a text to Lestrade,  **On my way back, not alone**.

Lestrade's reply was quick.  _Molly?_

**No. John is coming with me.**

_He is? How did you manage that?_

**I'm surprised you have so little faith in my powers of persuasion.**

_Nothing surprises me anymore._

"What are you smirking at your phone about?" John asked, craning his neck to see the screen. Sherlock hastily slipped his mobile into his pocket and raised his eyebrows innocently.

"Cat videos from Molly."

"Really? Let me see."

Now Sherlock did his best to look wounded. "You don't trust me."

"Absolutely not," John shot back. "But I don't really care. Tell me why I'm doing this again?"

Because you want adventure, Sherlock thought, but he kept that to himself. Instead he said promptly, "To stop me putting my gigantic foot in my mouth."

"Ah yes. Hoof in mouth disease. Very dangerous."


	12. Bargaining, Take 2

By the time they returned to NSY, Miss Oliver had been supplied with tissues, a cup of tea (half-drunk) in a pink floral cup, and a matching plate of biscuits (untouched). She was chatting quite comfortably to Donovan about some sort of recipe. As they entered the room, Sherlock heard her say, "The trick, my dear, is to use caster sugar, and level it off with a butter knife before you—"

She broke off suddenly, and the expression on her face turned from confiding to—what was that? Not fear exactly. More—wary. Yes, that was it. A quick cut of the eyes from Donovan to him, and then to John, before returning to Donovan. The gaze was sharp, but as soon as she had made eye contact with Donovan again, her expression changed, softened around the edges, became vulnerable and weak. What a conniving old fox!

Then Donovan, who had half-stood when they entered, spotted John too, and sat back down in her chair with a resigned twist of her lips. "Morning, John," she said, ignoring Sherlock completely. "Lovely to see you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Why was everyone so chuffed to see John? Lestrade had said the same thing when they met him in the lobby, and even the receptionist in her raised desk/jail cell by the front door had greeted John by name and asked after Gracie. Not that Sherlock minded—people were noticeably more relaxed around him when John was with him, and that was good for business. John could chat them up and fetch them tea, and when they had got comfortable, Sherlock could go for the jugular.

Lestrade introduced John to Josephine, and of course she took to him straightaway. Within a few moments, John had taken a seat on the other side of her, and the old woman was telling both him and Donovan in a confidential tone about her neighbor's bunions.

Sherlock was hardly listening while he made his observations. The woman continued to worry her handkerchief with one hand, while the other still held Donovan's. The back of the sergeant's hand showed reddish finger marks, indicating the grip was tight. Sherlock also noticed for the first time that the older woman's first two fingernails on the right hand were shorter than the rest, as if they had been broken, although they had obviously been filed smooth. Interesting. Had she broken them in a fight with her sister?

"Miss Oliver," Sherlock interrupted her abruptly. She stopped talking and looked up at him, but didn't speak. Her handkerchief came up to cover her mouth. Covering up future lies, no doubt. Or perhaps preventing the truth from escaping?

"When your sister came over last night, what were you fighting about?"

"I—I—she wanted—" Josephine's eyes closed momentarily. After a convulsive swallow, she continued in a stronger voice, "She wanted to go to the police with the evidence that Papa had done away with himself. I didn't want them to know that."

No, that wasn't true, obvious by the behavioural cues: closed eyes, swallow, the pause—they all added up to a lie. Sherlock scanned her face for more evidence, and suddenly was brought up short by the eyebrows—they were drawn down and together in the middle. Corrugator supercili. Darwin's grief muscle. The mark of true sadness and grief. He should know—he had seen it nearly constantly on John's face for the past three months.

So if Josephine was truly sad about Frances' death, what did that mean for his theory? He narrowed his eyes at the old woman, who looked away with an anxious flutter of her handkerchief. Sad about the death of her sister, but not of her father. The two sisters had accused each other, but—going back to his previous theory that they had done it together—what if that were an attempt to misdirect and cast reasonable doubt? And what if Frances had tried to convince Josephine to tell the truth, leading to a fight—a fight that had ended with Frances running and falling, not being pushed, down the stairs?

"You tried to grab for her, didn't you?" Sherlock said slowly. "She was falling and you tried to stop her. That's how you broke your fingernails."

The old woman's eyes, which had been dry, suddenly filled with tears. On the right track, then. Her hand curled up in a vain attempt to hide her fingernails.

"The two of you planned your father's death together—" (Donovan made a surprised noise, but Sherlock ignored her) "—and accused each other to cast doubt in the minds of the police. And it worked for a while, but Frances was afraid that the scheme was falling apart, especially since the police had begun to ask about the Digitalis. She came to plead with you to go to the police together, but you refused, so you argued, not physically, just verbally. You're not the type to use your fists when words will injure just as deeply."

Corrugator supercili AND depressor anguli oris muscles in play now. He had definitely hit the nail on the head this time, just needed to drive it home.

Donovan was scribbling furiously on her notepad. Sherlock cast a quick glance at John to check for stop signs, but John's head was turned toward Josephine Oliver. Sherlock couldn't see his face but his shoulders were set, spine straight. The bit of jaw that Sherlock could see was moving back and forth slightly—grinding his teeth? Why? Did that mean Sherlock had gone too far? No, of course not. John would give him the "not good" face if he had. So, forge ahead then.

"You argued," he continued, raising his voice slightly over the scratching of Donovan's pencil and the noise of them all thinking so loudly in the small room. "She ran to get away from you, and then she fell—or did she do it on purpose? Did she simply run at the stairs and fling herself down them before you could stop her?"

Sherlock was aware that John had stood up suddenly, but still couldn't see his face. No matter, he was almost done. Just needed to drive the final nail in the coffin. "Either way, you may not be criminally liable, but it's your fault. You drove her to it!" he cried triumphantly.

Josephine crumpled into a soggy ball, wailing "I'm sorry, Frannie! Oh, God forgive me!" Got her! Ah, success!

John turned, and Sherlock was almost afraid to look, because he knew what he would see—the "not good" face. And perhaps John was right, but he didn't feel like apologizing, because he had won! He had solved the case!

Sherlock finally made eye contact with John, and his internal celebration came to a screeching halt.

Corrugator supercili.

Depressor anguli oris.

Red-rimmed eyes.

Clenched jaw.

This was not the "Not Good" face. This was the "Something Is Wrong" face, that he had seen on John at Mary's memorial service, and repeatedly thereafter over the past few months. It hit Sherlock like a punch to the stomach, knocked the air right out of his lungs.

Without a word, John pushed past Sherlock and out the door, which closed behind him with a quiet click. Sherlock stared after him, frozen, his breathing loud in the silence that followed. He heard Donovan moving about, and when he turned, he discovered that everyone in the room was staring at him, wide-eyed, even Josephine, whose wrinkled face was streaked with tears. His eyes darted about the room, but nothing registered, except Something is Wrong, Something Is Wrong SomethingIsWrong. . .

A giant hand wrapped itself around his chest and squeezed, preventing the air from entering his lungs. The tight feeling traveled up his windpipe to his throat and lodged there. SomethingIsWrongSomethingIsWrong, was the only thought that kept repeating itself in his oxygen-starved brain. SomethingIsWrongwithJohn SomethingIsWrongWithJohn. But what? How could he not have known? Corrugator supercili depressor anguli oris Something Is Wrong. . .

He wasn't even aware that Donovan had got up until he felt her hand on his arm. He tried to pull away, but she held on and guided him toward the door, out of the little, claustrophobic room where the air had become too thick and hot, into the hallway where it was cooler. But the tight feeling in his chest didn't go away, and now he could feel the sweat beading on his forehead and dampening his fringe. Why was he still too warm? What was wrong with John? SomethingIsWrongsomethingiswrong. . .

The next breath came out with a whistling sound. The end of it turned into a bark, then he was doubled over gasping and choking. Throughout the coughing fit, Donovan's hand stayed on his arm, just a gentle pressure. He found it irritating, but he hadn't the mental or physical energy to pull away at the moment.

When he stood up, finally able to suppress the incessant coughing, she moved in front of him and brought her hand up. He flinched, his body assuming that she meant to slap him, but she only pushed his damp fringe aside and laid her palm on his forehead. Oh, her hand was so deliciously cool, it was all he could do to stop himself leaning into it. Maybe she would put it on the back of his neck. . .No! He didn't want Donovan touching him. He didn't want anyone touching him.

"Go 'way," he mumbled on a ragged breath. He pushed weakly at her hand, but she only grabbed his wrist and carried on, moving her hand down the side of his face, gently pressing her fingers against his cheek.

"Stop it," she demanded, when he continued to try to duck away from her touch. "Your breathing sounds funny."

"No it doesn't," he protested feebly. Panic bubbled in his chest, clogged his throat. He was being suffocated by a hot, wet blanket over his mouth and nose, drowning like Mary in muddy water. . .

"Yes, you're wheezing. Hear that whistling sound?"

Oh, was that what that was? He had been making that sound for over a month now, ever since Mary died.

Donovan continued, "You're sweaty, but you haven't got a fever." Keeping hold of his wrist, she pushed open his jacket and laid a hand against his stomach. He twisted against her grip, but found he couldn't get away.

"Stop touching me," he growled irritably. If she tried to unbutton his shirt next he was going to kill her with his bare hands, provided he could get them to obey.

"Just breathe," she commanded. He tried, but it wasn't working very well. His lungs had a heavy weight on them, and he could only force a shallow gasp in through his mouth. "Reverse breathing," she announced.

"What?"

"Your stomach goes in when you take a breath. Have you got an inhaler?"

"Don't need. . . inhaler." The urge to cough had returned, which he suppressed with a monumental effort.

"Yes, you do. I know an asthma attack when I see one."

". . .'aven't got asthma!" he objected between muffled coughs. His panicked eyes darted around the lobby, searching in vain for a sign of where John might have gone.

"Sweating, coughing, wheezing, reverse breathing. . ."

"'m fine. Just leave me 'lone!" Had he gone out the front door? If so, he would be in a cab headed who knows where by now. And why had he left? What had Sherlock done to set him off? He didn't know!

Her hand disappeared from his stomach—Finally! Now maybe she would leave him alone to go search for John. But she kept hold of his wrist with one cool hand while she pulled something out of her jacket pocket with the other: a small, gray plastic tube, bent at one end.

"Here, use mine," she said. She shook the tube while grabbing for his hand.

He pulled away, clumsily. "Don't need it. 'm fine," he muttered, much more weakly than he had intended. Disobedient voice! His transport was betraying him, and in front of Donovan no less.

"People die from asthma attacks, Sherlock," she insisted. She hauled his hand back and positioned his numb fingers around the tube, thumb on the bottom, two fingers on the top. "Open your mouth."

He clamped his lips shut, but his resistance was fading. His vision had started to turn gray around the edges from the lack of oxygen, and even his addled brain realized that was Not Good. Even though breathing may be boring, he had to admit it was necessary. Donovan may be an idiot, but at the moment she was the only person offering him any sort of solution.

Finally he opened his mouth just enough to let her position the inhaler. "Just try to relax and breathe the medicine into your lungs," She said, while squeezing down on the end of the tube. A second later, a nasty taste hit him at the back of his throat, like paint thinner mixed with a shot of cheap vodka. He pushed her hand away and bent over, retching and choking. Oh, that was wretched! Perhaps the horrible woman was trying to poison him after all.

After a few seconds leaned over with his hands braced against his knees, he realized that the weight on his lungs had lessened. He took an experimental breath, and discovered that he could breathe, really breathe, for the first time in weeks. Much better.

He straightened up and sucked in another breath. His mind cleared, muscles strengthened, as oxygen returned to his blood. He was still clammy but no longer actively sweating.

"Better?"

He responded with a grunt because he didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that he had needed her help. Besides, he wasn't even thinking about her anymore. Now that his mind was unfogged, he again focused on the only thing that mattered—John. Where would he go? Think!

"You should really take one more puff."

Sherlock looked down to discover that he still had her inhaler in his hand. Shaking his head, he tried to give it back to her, but she pushed his hand away. "Keep it. You'll need it again."

Sherlock ignored that. "What did I say?" he demanded.

"What do you mean?"

He fixed her with a penetrating glare. Was she being intentionally obtuse? "In there! You must know—what did I say to set him off?"

"I don't know. Sherlock, you should go see your doctor."

"John is my doctor. I would see him if I could find him! Where did he go?!"

"Maybe he went home? I don't know."

"But he seemed upset, yes?" Sherlock insisted. "Why would he be upset? I don't know what I said!" His voice broke on the last word. Now Donovan was regarding him with an expression of alarm.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," she said in a disgustingly sympathetic tone. "I know he's been through some tough times lately."

"No, he was getting better!" Sherlock nearly shouted, which caused her to take a step back. Useless! Everyone was useless! Waving his hand in dismissal, he strode off down the hallway toward the door, not even realizing until he got outside that he still had the inhaler clutched in his fist. Seeing no nearby rubbish bin, he shoved it into his pocket. He could throw it away later, because he was sure he wouldn't need it again.

Now back to the problem of John. Would he go home? Possibly. Gracie was there. Where else was John likely to go? Nowhere—he had no boltholes, no favorite haunts, except possibly his old flat. After a moment, Sherlock decided to start there, and continue on to Baker Street next.

When he had the cabbie pull up in front of John's and Mary's former residence, he discovered that all the lights were off and no one was home. He told the cabbie to wait while he circled the building and peeked in the windows, but found no sign of John. He didn't think it necessary to check inside, as John didn't know how to pick a lock and therefore couldn't have got in. On to Baker Street, then.

As he stepped out of the cab in front of 221, he looked up and saw that the sitting room window was dark. Did that mean John hadn't come here either? It was worth a check inside, as he had no other ideas.

He paid the cabbie and headed up to the door. Traces of grayish mud on the stoop, fresh. Door slightly ajar. Yes, John was definitely here.

Closing the door behind him, he headed toward the stairs just as Mrs Hudson emerged from her flat with Gracie in her arms.

"Oh, Sherlock—" she started. As soon as Gracie saw Sherlock, she held out her arms for him to take her, but he shook his head. Had to get things sorted with John first. If John were here and hadn't picked up Gracie, there must be a reason for it.

"Not now, Mrs Hudson," he said shortly.

"But will you be wanting—"

"Not now!" He looked up the stairs and discovered more chunks of damp grayish mud, formed in the shape of the treads on John's shoes.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, let out a deep breath through his nose, and said "I'm sorry. Just a bit—just a bit longer please."

"Yes, all right, dear. That's fine." Mrs Hudson still stood in the doorway, but he had got the reaction he was looking for, so he ignored her and moved back into deduction mode. Fresh mud on the stairs meant John had returned home, but it wasn't his first stop. He hadn't picked up Gracie, which he would normally do straightaway, so that meant he was likely still in emotional distress. Tread carefully, show no weakness, be strong and supportive, as Molly had advised him. Wasn't that what she had said, at Mary's memorial service? Close enough. If he could stay strong, John would get better.

At the doorway of 221B, which was open a crack, Sherlock caught a whiff of an acrid, chemical smell. Familiar. His mind instantly made the association and supplied him with the name: Napier bore solvent, mixed with Ballistol oil. His stomach dropped with the realization. Napier bore solvent + Ballistol oil = John's gun. The first time he had smelled that combination was a happy memory: the day John first moved in to 221B, after he had shot the cabbie to save Sherlock's life. He always cleaned the gun after it had been fired. But John hadn't fired his gun lately, at least as far as Sherlock knew, so why would he be cleaning it? Conclusion: he wasn't. Something Was Wrong. The tight fist of panic clamped down on his stomach.

Carefully, Sherlock pushed the door open and entered the darkened sitting room, to discover John sitting in his favorite armchair. John didn't turn, although he must have heard the door, so Sherlock could only see the part of the side of his face in the light leaking in through the window. The muscle in John's jaw and temple jumped spasmodically, but he otherwise sat motionless. In his right hand, which was all Sherlock could see at the moment, John held the bottle of Jameson's, mostly empty.

"John?" Sherlock said quietly, taking a couple of cautious steps into the room. When he came even with the chair, he could see that John was holding his gun, a Sig Sauer P226R, loosely in his left hand. John's eyes, rimmed with red in the dim room, were locked on the pistol dangling from his fingers.

"John?" Sherlock said again. No response, although he was sure John could hear him. Corrugator supercili depressor anguli oris Something Is Wrong. "John, can I have the gun, please?"

Still no response. The hand was squeezing his windpipe so tightly Sherlock could barely speak, but he cleared his throat and tried again. "John? Please," he said in a voice that wavered precariously.

"She was leaving me," John said in a flat voice, startling Sherlock who blinked in response.

"What?"

"We had a fight and she was leaving. I didn't know where she was going."

Sherlock was having difficulty processing this information, so many questions chased themselves around in his addled brain, but he latched on to the last sentence. "You said—you said she was going to Beth's house."

"We haven't got a friend called Beth," John responded tonelessly. His thumb brushed along the barrel of the gun and over the trigger guard. "I thought you had figured that out by now."

No friend called Beth? But Mary was constantly getting calls from her, and they both would go off and talk to her—oh God, he got it now.

"So it's my fault, isn't it?" John continued, still in that flat, hopeless voice.

"No, it's—"

"That's what you said. It was the sister's fault."

Sherlock shook his head in a panic. "In that case, not in yours. No one blames you, John. Please—"

"I blame me. Maybe if I had been better, loved her better, she'd still be here." John hefted the gun, not pointing it at anything in particular, just watching it move up and down in the light from the window. But Sherlock knew from experience how quickly that could change. Moriarty had gone from gun in hand to gun in mouth to pulling the trigger in less than a second, before Sherlock had even had time to react.

"Please, John, please." He felt the tears welling up, but he would not give in. He had to be strong for John. "Please, let me have the gun." He couldn't stop the raw emotion that leaked through his defences. Couldn't breathe, buried alive, drowning. Something WAS wrong, and now he knew what it was, and he couldn't fix it.

John's eyes came up to meet his for the first time since he had walked through the door. John blinked, and the muscles rearranged themselves. Corrugator supercilli still contracted, but now zygomaticus major joined in, pulling the cheek upward and narrowing the eyes. Confusion.

"John. . ." he started, but couldn't think what to say next. His understanding of John's emotional state had been flipped on its head. John had been getting better, damnit! Or so Sherlock had thought. Now he knew how wrong he had been. Not better something is wrong something is wrong Mary is dead and something is wrong.

For a long moment they both stayed frozen, staring. Sherlock's mind raced. He could feel his belly sucking in with each inhalation, but he pushed the sensation aside. He didn't know what to DO!

"Yeah." John said finally, sitting back in the chair with a loud exhalation through his mouth. "Yeah, you're right." He turned the gun around—for a second Sherlock was sure he was going to turn it on himself, but instead he grabbed it by the barrel and held the grip out to Sherlock. "You take it. Yeah."

"That's good, John." Moving slowly and carefully, Sherlock reached out and took the gun from John's hand. As soon as John let go, it was all Sherlock could do not to collapse on the floor in relief. "We'll just put this away, all right?"

"Yeah." John's response was a bare whisper. "Ok." He lifted the bottle of Jameson's and glanced at it, sloshed the liquid around inside, but didn't take a drink.

Sherlock released the magazine and racked the slide to eject the cartridge from the gun. With trembling hands he put it in the small safe, then snapped it closed and held out his hand for the bottle. "Can I have that too?" he asked carefully.

After a moment's silent contemplation, John held out the bottle as well, and Sherlock took it. "I'll just put these away."

"Ok." Flat. Toneless. Emotionless. Face expressionless. How was John feeling? His face and voice gave no clues anymore, and Sherlock found himself at a loss. He had so many questions he wanted desperately to ask John, but he needed to make sure the gun was secure first, somewhere John couldn't find it.

While he hovered in the middle of the sitting room dithering, John pushed himself out of his chair and stood, wobbling a bit on his feet. Then he rubbed at his face, turned and trudged toward his bedroom. Sherlock just watched him go, afraid to act for fear of setting him off, but at the same time terrified that failing to act would lead to tragic consequences.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe no one called me out about Mary going to see Beth. Of course John knows they don't have a friend called Beth! Feel free to leave me a comment telling me you knew it all along.


	13. Fear

Finally he made up his mind to try to talk to John, find out more information about what had happened with Mary. Make sure he was. . . safe—he had no idea how to do that one. Pumping people for information he could do, was an expert at. Reassuring them and talking them out of suicide, not so much.

He quickly took the gun case up to his bedroom and hid it in the top of the wardrobe, then went back down to John's bedroom door, which was tightly closed. After a moment's hesitation, he straightened his collar, took as deep a breath as he could manage and knocked firmly on the door.

After a pause, John's voice floated out, sounding tense. "I'm all right."

"We—we need to talk about this." Sherlock had to fight to keep the panic out of his voice. He couldn't panic. If he panicked, then he couldn't support John.  _Frontal lobes don't function well in panic mode,_  his brain told him in Mycroft's voice.

"Not right now, please."

"John, yes, now. What was the fight about?"

"It doesn't matter." John's voice was thick with resignation.

Didn't matter? Of course it mattered! "Please come out, John. I need more information." How did John expect him to solve this puzzle without the necessary information?!

There was no answer to that, but a moment later, the door clicked open and John stood framed in the opening. Lips pursed, nostrils flared. Annoyed? Why?

"No, you really don't need more information," he said tightly.

"Yes, I do." Sherlock insisted. "What did she say specifically?"

John rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "I can't even remember." Sherlock carefully examined John's face, at least the part of it he could see. That was a lie, he was sure of it. Why wouldn't John tell him?

"How long had you been fighting?"

"I don't know. Married couples fight all the time. It was just. . . normal." Why was John doing this?

"Then what was different this time?" Sherlock persisted. "There must have been something."

John shook his head. "No, I'm not doing this," he said firmly. "Now, you've got the gun. I promise I won't harm myself. Can I have some peace please?"

"But—but—"

"I just need some time to think." John's voice softened. "Please."

The door closed quietly but with an air of finality, leaving Sherlock staring at it blankly. What was he to do if John wouldn't talk to him? Mary would have known how to fix this, he thought suddenly. If Mary were here, she'd have been able to talk John 'round. If only. . .

Slamming the brakes on that pointless train of thought, he stumbled into the bathroom to wash the gun oil off his hands. While he was drying them, he caught a glimpse of his own face in the mirror. The sight stopped him in his tracks.

Corrugator supercilli

Depressor anguli oris

He raised his eyebrows and pulled back his lips in an attempt to reset his face, but when he relaxed, the same two muscle groups stayed contracted. It was ridiculous, but he couldn't control it.

While staring at his own stupid face, he made up his mind—he needed to get rid of the gun. Leaving it at the flat—accessible to John—was too risky.

After he finished drying his hands, he went quietly back up to his bedroom, where he opened the gun safe, tucked the gun into his coat pocket next to the inhaler and one of Gracie's dummies, and headed down the stairs. At the foot of the steps he considered: would it be better to leave Gracie with Mrs Hudson, or take her with him?

She would be safer staying with Mrs Hudson, he decided, as he was armed and hadn't a clear idea of where he was going or what he would do. Jamming his cold hands into his pockets, knuckles bumping against the gun which was still warm from John's touch, he looked up and down the street. Where to ditch the gun? He could drop it in the Thames, where it would likely have plenty of company from other discarded weapons. But the likelihood of being seen was high, unless he went to some out of the way place, which would take longer than he felt it safe to be away. He could hide it in one of his boltholes, but the risk was too great that someone else might find it.

He paced up and down the pavement in front of the flat, trying to control the rampant anxiety that set his muscles twitching and his heart racing. He could not simply stand still, he needed to MOVE, but he didn't know where to go, so he paced. Three steps one direction—no, not that way—turn, take three steps the other way—No!

Suddenly he remembered: Molly! She had said if he needed help, he should ask her. She had come through for him before. And since her shift ended at two, and she always went home straightaway to take a shower after work, she should be home by now. She could hide the gun for a while, until John calmed down. She didn't have to know why.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he sent a text to Mrs Hudson.  **I need to go out for a bit. Will pick up Gracie when I return**. He pushed the phone back into his pocket, but a second later pulled it out again and sent another text.  **Let me know if John picks up Gracie.**

Her response came while he was bouncing along in the back of the cab.  _G NAPPING NW WL TXT U WHN SHE WAKES._  Not for the first time, he wondered if Mrs Hudson thought she had to pay by the letter for her outgoing texts.

* * *

Molly's front door was locked, and he had no lock picks. He tried to use a credit card to jimmy it open, but his fingertips were numb—not from cold, as it was warmer today in mid-September than it had been in August—and he fumbled the card onto the concrete step three times before he finally gave up and just leaned against the door, closed his eyes and tried to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. How boring. He hadn't the energy to move.

Suddenly he felt the door give way and pulled himself upright just in time to avoid falling into Molly's arms.

"Oh! Sherlock? Are you all right?" Molly, dressed in her bathrobe and slippers, stood blinking at him, but didn't step aside so he could come in.

"Yes. No." He swayed in the entryway.

Her brow furrowed in concern. "Do you need something?"

Did he need something? Why was he there again? Oh, yes. John. The gun. Right. "Can I come in?"

"All right." She stepped back with a worried frown. "You look a bit peaky. What's wrong?"

"I need you to do something."

"What is it?"

He fumbled in his pocket and came out with the gun. With a gasp, she took him by the arm and pulled him the rest of the way into the flat, closing the door behind him after a quick glance around.

"Why have you got a gun?!" she hissed.

"It's John's. I need it. . .out of the flat for a bit."  _No questions now, that's a good lass_ , he encouraged her mentally, but to no avail. Of course she would ask questions. Exasperating.

"You want me to keep a gun? Sherlock, that's against the law!" she cried with an edge of panic in her voice.

"Yes, I course I know that, but I just need a place to hide it, for a little while," he said quickly. "It's not loaded."

"Did you shoot someone with it? Or did John? Please don't make me hide a murder weapon!"

"No, nothing like that." Why couldn't she just agree already? He already had the perfect hiding place picked out for it, behind the hideous flowered bedspread in her linen closet. Breathe in (wheeze). Out (wheeze). In (wheeze). . .Try to pretend that breathing isn't difficult. Try to stand up straight. Maybe she won't notice.

"Then why?" He needn't have worried that Molly would notice his wheezing, because she was obviously still stuck on this ridiculous line of questioning.

"Because I'm afraid John will hurt himself with it," Sherlock blurted out. Well, so much for his plan to not tell her why he needed her to hide it. Oh, not the itchiness again. It was all he could do not to scratch the skin off his sweaty face.

Molly took a step back, hand over her mouth. "Oh, God, Sherlock. . ." Her eyes reddened and filled up with tears. "I'm so sorry, I had no idea."

"Neither did I. Will you take it? Please?"

"Yes, of course," she agreed immediately. Good. He took a step toward the linen closet in the hallway, stumbled over his own feet and almost fell. Her hand was back on his arm.

"Sherlock, honestly, you're gray. Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine." He shook off her hand and kept moving, but she followed him, grabbing for his wrist this time.

He had the cupboard open, but it seemed an insurmountable task to pull out all the linens to hide the gun. Where was that damn bedspread and why couldn't it be on top of the untidy pile?

Molly stepped around him and took out a wrinkled pink pillowcase, which she held open. "Just drop it in, please, if you're sure it's not loaded."

He gasped, "It's unloaded," and dropped it in. She wrapped up the pillowcase around the gun and, standing on her tiptoes, shoved it in the back of the linen closet under a mound of blankets.

Sherlock found that the floor appeared to be tipping. He put a hand on the wall to support himself. Not enough—still unsteady, knees turning to jelly. He leaned his back against the wall and rested his hands on his thighs. Breathe in (wheeze). Breathe out (wheeze).

"There," she said, wiping her hands on her bathrobe with an air of satisfaction. But when she turned toward him, the satisfaction morphed back to that concerned expression he had seen before. She had no reason to be worried, he thought. He was just gathering his strength for a moment.

He felt her hand, soft and cool, on his wrist, but he hadn't the energy to pull away. So warm in her flat, how could her hands be cold?

"Your pulse is racing, Sherlock. I don't think you're all right."

"Can't. . . breathe," he gasped, before dissolving into a coughing fit.

"What can I do? Should I call 999?" Her voice reflected real panic now. Did he really sound that bad?

Oh, the inhaler! Donovan had said he would need it again. How frustrating for her to be right! He felt around in his pocket and pulled out the small plastic tube. Now to get it turned round the right direction. . .

After he had fumbled with it for a few seconds, Molly gently took the inhaler, shook it, and positioned it correctly so he could take a puff. The nasty taste hit him at the back of the throat again. While he was gagging and coughing, Molly stepped back and turned the tube around in her hands.

"This was prescribed to Sally Donovan," she said in a perplexed tone.

Sherlock took an experimental breath. A bit better. Still itchy and sweaty. "She gave it to me. I'm all right now."

Her fingers wrapped around his wrist again. "Your pulse is still racing. Come and sit down for a minute." She towed him toward the sofa. He was powerless to resist. Maybe sitting down would be a good idea, since the floor still insisted on swaying back and forth. He followed her on unsteady legs and lowered himself awkwardly onto the sofa. Couldn't sit for long, needed to get back to John. Oh, John. . . Somethingiswrongsomethingiswrong. Mary on the slab, face cut to ribbons. Motherless Gracie reaching for him. . .

He felt the sofa dip slightly as Molly sat down beside him, and then her hand, soft and fluttery like a bird, came to rest on his back. With that small gesture, that tiny bit of kindness, he came undone. All of the grief and pain he had avoided dealing with while vainly trying to be strong and supportive for John came crashing down on him like a flood. The dam burst and just like that, he was sobbing.

He braced his elbows on his knees and pressed his hands to his face in a desperate attempt to stem the flow, but the tears continued. The hand on his back stilled. He couldn't see Molly's face, but he imagined her gaping at him in shock. Must stop this, he told himself sternly. Crying in front of Molly simply wouldn't do. But his traitorous body wasn't listening.

"Oh, Sherlock. . .I'm so sorry, sweetheart. . ." Molly's voice broke. He heard a quiet sniffle, but he kept his hands over his face. Couldn't let her see him fall apart.

God, this HURT. Worse than being separated from John while playing dead. Worse than being shot in the chest. The pain of losing Mary and fear of losing John melded together into a weight that nearly crushed him.

"Can you tell me what's happening, Sherlock?" Her voice was soft, hesitant.

For a long time he said nothing. It felt like a betrayal to tell Molly what John had told him.

"Can you tell me how you're feeling, at least?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he bit out through clenched teeth. Were there words for how he was feeling? He didn't think so.

"It will help you to talk about it. Really, it will," she coaxed gently. "You can't handle this all on your own."

Still he said nothing, although he knew she was right about one thing: He couldn't handle it, obviously. Nightmares, asthma, crying on someone else's sofa—all signs of his complete inadequacy to "handle this".

"You said you were afraid John would hurt himself with the gun. What happened?" Her voice was so soft, so kind. She needed to stop that, or he would be forced to tell her everything. It wasn't fair.

"John—John blames himself," he choked out. "I didn't even know."

"For Mary's death?"

The most he could manage was a jerky nod, hands still covering his face.

"Why would he blame himself?" Still that gentle coaxing. She was taking advantage of his damaged defenses, he knew, but he couldn't stop himself from telling more, like water flowing over a broken dam.

"He said she was leaving him. I didn't even know they were fighting, Molly. How could I not know that?" His voice broke again. Stop it stop it stopit.

"If he hadn't told you, you couldn't have known."

"I keep having nightmares about her," he admitted with a gasp. "drowning. She can't breathe. But when I wake up, I'm the one who can't breathe. I'm drowning, Molly. I can't—I can't—"

"Oh. . ." Molly hesitated, and when he glanced up, he discovered that she was studying her hands. "Um. . .She didn't—she didn't drown."

"She didn't?" How could that be?"

"It was in the report I gave John. I'm surprised you didn't—never mind. She didn't have her seatbelt on. When the car rolled she broke her neck. She was dead before she hit the water." Molly sniffled and swiped at her face too.

"Oh," he said. "That doesn't really help at all." Sherlock wiped his face with his palms. His nose was streaming, but he had no handkerchief. Molly held out a box of tissues and he started to wave it away, but then thought better of it and took one.

"Do you think it might help to talk to John about how you're feeling?" Molly asked in that gentle voice, still holding out the tissue box. "About how he's feeling?"

"He's dealing with enough right now. I don't think me falling apart would help. You were the one who said not to show emotion."

Molly's eyebrows pulled together in confusion and surprise. "I never said that!"

"Yes, you did," he insisted. "At Mary's memorial. You said I had to be strong and supportive."

Molly shook her head. "I didn't mean not to show your emotions. He needs to know his feelings are all right, that it's safe to express them around you."

Sherlock wasn't too sure of that. Expressing and talking about his emotions seemed likely to cause the flood that he was trying desperately to avoid. Talking about feelings seemed pointless and a waste of time.

"You're not alone, Sherlock. You don't have to do this alone." Her voice was so reassuring, he almost believed her. Almost.

At that moment his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out (accompanied by a dummy which he put back) and discovered a text from Mrs Hudson.  _JN LEFT DIDNT TAKE G_.

Damnit! Without a word to Molly, Sherlock vaulted himself off the sofa and strode toward the door. Where would John go? He should never have left him alone!

"Sherlock? What is it?" came Molly's worried voice from behind him.

"I've got to go," he replied vaguely, waving a hand in her direction.

"What's wrong?! Sherlock!"

He was already out the door by that time. Couldn't she see he was in a hurry? He had been sitting there pointlessly jabbering about feelings, when he should have been home already.

On the way down the walk, he dialed John, but after the third ring it went to voicemail. "John, please call me," he said tersely, and hung up. Next he texted John:  **Where are you?**  and then just stood there on the pavement staring stupidly at his phone, waiting for a reply that didn't come.

While he was standing there glaring at his useless phone, it buzzed with a text from Molly.  _Sherlock, what's going on?_

Oh, of course she would be worried, given that he had just fled her flat, but he still found it infuriating.  **I'm fine,**  he texted back.  **Everything's fine**.

_Is it about John?_ She was going to keep texting him unless he either reassured her, or blew her off so thoroughly that he made her hate him somehow. The second option was impossible, so he went with the first.

**There's no danger. I'll text you later. Thanks for your help.** That should do it. Molly could live for weeks on one "thank you" from him.

Where would John go, where would John hide, he asked himself for the second time that day. He still had no idea, but this time a picture of John's shoes appeared in his mind—shoes that were caked with dried grayish-brown mud, not just once, but repeatedly, after John had been on some unknown outing. Where could he have got that mud? It must be some distance from Baker Street, because the mud had had time to dry.

Memory teased—he had seen that color of mud before recently, and not just in the street near Tweaker's flat. Longer ago than that. . . Suddenly it came to him in a flash of color (black, bright red, purple and pink, all overlaid with gray), the smell of rain and rot, and a roaring sound. Of course that was where John would go. And if Sherlock hurried, he could get there before him.


	14. erm. . . sad, I suppose

Sherlock was already sitting on the river bank, perched on the driest rock he could find, when John showed up. He heard the footsteps, first quick and sure, then slowing, hesitant. So John had spotted him then. He didn't turn to confirm the deduction, but he did slide over a bit to make room for John to sit next to him.

The footsteps halted a few steps behind him, and for a long moment he just waited. He found himself uncertain, after the first forty-two seconds, that John would sit and not bolt, but finally he felt John's sleeve brush against his. When he turned his head to look, he found that John was staring out at the water, hands jammed into his pockets, face scrunched up against the wind.

This was the very rock, Sherlock realized, where he had found John in this exact same position two months ago, staring out through the rain at the muddy Cherwell. The tyre tracks were gone now, along with most of the little bits of colorful broken plastic and metal, but Sherlock could still picture the black Audi A3 hatchback, covered in grayish brown muck, with its roof caved in and windscreen crushed.

John's voice interrupted his runaway train of thought. "I'm sorry," he said simply.

"Why didn't you tell me about the fight?" Sherlock asked. "All this time you've been blaming yourself and you never told me."

"I don't deal well with emotions. Never have. Ella says I learnt it from my family. Harry got the alcoholism and I got the inability to express my feelings and the intermittent explosions. Lucky me."

"But if you had just told me what happened, I could have—could have—" Sherlock shrugged helplessly. What would he have done if John had hold him? What could he possibly have done to change anything?

John shook his head, although his eyes never left the river, still muddy but quieter now, not rushing and roaring as it had been on that day Mary's car went into the water. "You wanted everything to be fine. Whenever I got close to telling you, you would change the subject."

Sherlock considered. Had he done that? Yes, of course he had. That was his answer to all tricky emotional situations. Deflect. Avoid. Ignore. He had to admit that strategy hadn't worked so well in this situation.

"I'm—I'm sorry, I didn't know what to do. I was trying my best." Sherlock knew his voice sounded whiny, but he couldn't seem to control it. "I didn't know what to do," he finished lamely.

"I know. It's not your fault."

Sherlock studied John's face. Brows pulled down, corners of the mouth tipped downward, causing a little pouch to appear below the ends of the lower lip. Corrugator supercili. Depressor anguli oris. He could feel the same muscles contracted on his own face, despite his attempts to relax them. He felt a ghost of Molly's hand on his back. Tell him, her voice whispered in his ear.

"I'm feeling. . ." he trailed off. Were there words for this feeling, this tightness in his chest? Fear might be the closest. But overlaying everything, coloring it all in shades of gray, was the patina of grief. ". . . sad. John, how are you. . . feeling?" Oh, he was rubbish at this. John deserved to have someone who actually knew what they were doing to talk to.

John made a noise through his nose. "You say that like there's only one answer," he said in a strained voice. He turned his head toward Sherlock for the first time, studied his face for a moment: starting with his eyebrows, traveling down to Sherlock's mouth. His lips twisted, and he said with a sigh, "All right."

John swallowed hard and turned back toward the water. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and rubbed them on his knees, tucked his chin into the collar of his jacket. "All right. . . Sad, yes."

A pause. Sherlock didn't dare breathe.

"Guilty." His hands balled up into fists. Another long pause, then John ground out, "Angry," through clenched teeth.

Sherlock's hand reached out of its own volition toward John, who grabbed it and squeezed it hard enough to hurt. John was breathing harshly through his nose now. His other hand came up to cover his face, fingers curled around the end of his eyebrow.

Oh. John was  _crying_.

Oh. Was this what it meant to be supportive? Holding John's hand while he cried? He could do that, although he wasn't sure of the use of it. He sat quietly for what felt like a long time. Excruciatingly long. His mind began to wander to more helpful uses of his time. For example, this fight that John had mentioned—it seemed awfully convenient, considering he had never said anything about it before. He had worked a case with John only a few weeks before Mary's death, and everything had seemed just ducky.

"John," he said, after he felt an appropriate amount of time for crying had passed. "When did you and Mary start fighting?"

"What does it matter?" John said harshly from behind his hand.

"I need to know. I haven't got enough information."

"Married people fight. . ."

"Yes, you said that before, but she hadn't ever threatened to leave before, had she?"

"Well, no. It was never that bad before." A deep sniffle, then John disengaged their hands to pull out a handkerchief from the inner pocket of his jacket to swipe at his face.

"Then when did it start getting 'that bad'? Was it just out of the blue?" Sherlock persisted.

Another sigh from John, then he said in a shaky voice, "I suppose it had been getting worse for a few weeks."

"A few weeks?" Sherlock latched onto the information hungrily. There had to be more to the story! "Was there something specific that made her angry?"

"Well, one night—"

"What night?" Sherlock interrupted excitedly.

"I don't know." Another sigh, an eye roll, then John pulled his phone from his pocket and opened his calendar. After scrolling back for a few seconds, he said, "I suppose it was. . . the 7th of July." (Sherlock smoothly covered his recognition of the date) "We went on a date that night. During dinner she was tense. I tried to get her to relax, but she kept getting more and more annoyed with me."

"But she didn't say why she was tense?" Sherlock pressed. John shook his head.

"She was upset with me, but I couldn't figure out what I had done wrong. When we got home, she didn't want to. . .um. . . you know."

Sherlock wrinkled his brow. John was looking away, cheeks turning red. Embarrassed? Why? "No, I don't know," he snapped, and waited impatiently for John to enlighten him.

Finally John gave an exasperated snort. "Have sex. She didn't want to have sex. God, I can't believe I'm telling you this."

Sherlock waved away John's embarrassment. "Was this unusual?" he demanded.

"Well, yes, I suppose. She said I wasn't 'being supportive'. She went around the house pointing out all the things I had done wrong, or hadn't done, all the ways I had. . . failed."

"She was angry over housework?" That sounded unlikely to Sherlock, especially given the timing, the same date she had met up with "Star" for the first time. He felt a duty to tell that to John, but then he would have to explain his reasoning, which might lead to some tricky territory, considering John had specifically asked him not to investigate.

John shook his head. "Not just that. It was. . . everything. She said I wasn't emotionally available, which I know is true, by the way."

Sherlock didn't even know what "emotionally available" might mean, but it seemed an unlikely reason for a person to decide to leave. And there had been no clothes in the overnight bag among Mary's effects. "Did she take any clothes with her, the day she left?" he asked abruptly.

"No, we had been shouting at each other all morning, and she just said she was leaving, tossed a few things in a bag and took off. She texted me that evening, that she needed time to sort things out. Now I think she probably sent that text just before. . ." John made a half-hearted gesture toward the river.

"But doesn't it seem odd—"

"Sherlock, please," John interrupted. "I'm done being interrogated," he said firmly.

Sherlock clamped his lips together. Mustn't tell John what he had found. Better to simply carry on quietly. If and when his investigation led to a conclusion, then he could tell him.

While he was thinking through this, he looked up and discovered John was watching him curiously. Oh, shit. Was his face giving him away? "What—" he started off innocently, but John shushed him.

"Don't talk. Just breathe," John said shortly.

It seemed an odd request, but Sherlock complied. John leaned in and tipped his head to the side, and after a few seconds Sherlock realized what he was listening for. Oh, that.

"You're wheezing," John said with a frown. "Has that been happening for long?"

"A while," Sherlock admitted. "It's nothing serious."

"I never noticed before. Time to quit smoking."

"I did. Weeks ago."

John's eyebrows went up. "Oh? I'm sorry, I suppose I haven't been paying attention."

Another few seconds of John listening and Sherlock trying to control his breathing, then John said, in a much gentler tone, "I scared you today, didn't I?"

"Um. . . a bit, with the alcohol and the gun."

"Hm. I noticed the gun went missing. Tell me you didn't chuck it into the Thames."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's somewhere safe."

"Good. I'd rather it were out of the house for a while. You should come into the surgery tomorrow and let me do a proper exam. It's probably asthma."

"I'll do it if you go talk to someone."

"I've talked to you," he said with a shrug.

"John, I'm rubbish at this. You need to talk to someone who knows what to say back. A. . . counselor, or therapist or something," Sherlock insisted.

"That didn't work out so well for me last time," John said ruefully.

"Then find someone else. Please. I'll pa—Mycroft will pay for a private therapist for you."

John's rueful expression turned into a wry smile. "He will, will he? That's terribly thoughtful of him." He stood, brushed off the seat of his trousers, and held out a hand to Sherlock. "Ready to go home?"

"Absolutely," Sherlock responded, taking the offered hand but mostly clambering to his feet on his own. Things would be much better now, he was sure of it.

* * *

**Card #7**

**Mary was leaving John**

**Reason? Housework?**

**First fight same date as meeting with Star**

Sherlock leaned over his bed with the new card in his hand, unsure of where to put it. Mary leaving John didn't make sense. Why would she pick a fight about the washing up? It was obvious that she was being blackmailed by the mysterious man who had obtained the photo from Wood. Was she trying to protect John and Gracie by bowing out of their lives? In a puzzle filled with wrong pieces, this was the most wrong one of them all.

* * *

_He stumbles down the slick embankment to find Mary sitting on the rock in her red coat, which is stained and muddy at the hem. She greets him with a bright smile, and he starts running, over the uneven rocks and sand toward her. As he gets closer, the mud climbs up the front of her coat, over her shoulders, until her neck and chin are grey-brown and dripping. Just as he is almost within arms' reach, her smile drops. She stands abruptly and turns away from him, starts walking slowly toward the churning water. "Mary!" he cries, but she only walks faster. He wants to catch her, but his feet feel like they are mired in cement._

_When she reaches the edge of the river, she turns and says simply, "Goodbye, Sherlock." Then she steps into the tumbling water and is instantly swept away._

" _Mary!" he screams. "MARY!"_


	15. Acceptance, take 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were you stressed out by those last couple of chapters? Here is a little interlude for you to catch your breath, including a case file and some clever banter between the boys. But keep in mind that, even though this chapter is also called "Acceptance," there are still at least 9 more chapters to come. The story isn't over, not by a long shot.

(15 September)

Sherlock hated the nebulizer treatments.  _Hated_  them. Fifteen minutes of enforced sitting on the sofa, not allowed to move, not allowed to talk. When he tried to use his phone, John took it out of his hand.

"You need to sit up straight and hold the mouthpiece. And breathe through your mouth or you won't get the proper dosage."

"Breathing is boring," Sherlock groused around the mouthpiece.

"But necessary."

"Bored!" Sherlock wailed.

"Then go to your mind castle or whatever you call it."

"Too noisy. Can't think."

"Don't talk," John chided. "Here." He switched on the telly to a horrible chat programme.

"Bored! Might start shooting up the wall again."

"That would be difficult to do, seeing as my gun has gone missing."

Sherlock huffed and slouched down on the sofa, knees bumping the coffee table and nearly knocking John's mobile to the floor. "Bored," he mumbled again.

John, who had rescued his mobile and headed toward the kitchen, called back, "I heard that! Now sit up and stop it or I'll make you start the treatment over."

Oh, he wouldn't dare, would he? Sherlock wasn't sure, but he spent the rest of the treatment holding the mouthpiece straight and staying stock still. He didn't even move when Gracie paused in her cruising of the furniture to grab the remote control off the table and drag it toward her mouth. She could destroy it for all he cared, and the telly too. He couldn't even hear it anyway over the horrible racket the nebulizer was putting out.

Like a miracle, Lestrade showed up just as he was finishing his treatment, with a wry grin on his face when he saw Sherlock attached to the nebulizer while Gracie held onto his trouser leg and gummed the remote. Was he bringing some relief for the unrelenting boredom of the past three days? Sherlock had high hopes.

"Hiya, Sherlock. Got some news for you." Lestrade said, smirking. He took another step into the room to reveal Donovan standing behind him. When she saw Sherlock she also broke into a smug grin. Oh, just shut up, both of you, Sherlock thought. But he didn't dare say that to them, just in case they were bringing him a case.

Sherlock pulled the nebulizer out of his mouth. "What is it?" He asked warily.

"Miss Oliver #2 cracked wide open, confessed the whole plot."

Sherlock frowned. "Of course she did." That was nothing new. How disappointing. He tucked the nebulizer back into his mouth just in time, before John walked in, drying his hands on a tea towel.

"Hi Greg, what a surprise to see you here. Have you got something for us?" Was that a note of desperation in John's voice?

"As a matter of fact, I do. Sherlock, I heard you might be looking for a new case," Lestrade replied jovially. The smirk lingered. Sherlock cut his eyes to John and back to Lestrade suspiciously, but decided not to ask if John had called him. All would be forgiven if he was bringing something to relieve the dreadful boredom.

"You'll like this one, Sherlock," Lestrade continued. "Man found dead in his flat, stripped to his pants, wrapped head to toe in packaging tape."

Sherlock pulled the nebulizer mouthpiece out. "Including his face?" he demanded.

"Yeah. And his flat was all smashed up." By Lestrade's grin, he must have been sure Sherlock would jump on the case, but Sherlock just rolled his eyes. Boring!

"Obvious!" he exclaimed. "Auto-erotic asphyxiation."

"How do you figure?"

"He wrapped himself up, then couldn't get free. Started hopping about the flat, bashing into things until he finally passed out and suffocated. Not interested." **(1)**

John, who had tucked the tea-towel under his arm, came over and took the mouthpiece from Sherlock. "You're done," he announced, which Sherlock already knew anyway. Didn't anyone ever say anything interesting? Why did life have to be so dull?

"Got anything else?" John asked Lestrade hopefully while he turned off the nebulizer and took it apart.

"Well. . ." Lestrade exchanged a look with Donovan, whose face held a sour expression. "We have got something else, but. . ."

"But what?" Sherlock demanded instantly, jumping up off the sofa. It must be good if Donovan didn't want him involved.

"You can't come alone," Donovan put in, arms folded tightly. "We've agreed, haven't we, Inspector?"

"Riiight. . ."

Sherlock noticed that John was giving him a skeptical look, but decided to ignore it. "So what's the case? No more old biddies, please."

"No old biddies. A woman in Fitzrovia got a package in the mail containing two human ears packed in salt."  **(2)**

Sherlock perked up a bit at that. "You're quite sure they're human ears?"

"Molly Hooper says so."

"They could have been sent by her former tenants," Donovan put in hopefully. "They were medical students. Could have been holding a grudge from when she turned them out. . ."

Sherlock dismissed her theory with a wave of his hand. "I'll need to see the package," He said firmly. "John, fetch your shoes."

"Sherlock. . ."

"What?!" Sherlock demanded. John had no excuses, so why would he refuse? "You've not got work today. Mrs Hudson can babysit, if that's what you're worried about."

"We've talked about this," John said in a gently chiding tone.

Sherlock flopped back onto the sofa with a frustrated grunt. "I must have something to relieve this deadly boredom! You have to come with me, John!"

"Oh, I have to?"

"Yes, or I shall be forced to mope around the flat all day complaining and shooting holes in the wall."

"I think 'forced to' might be too strong of a term," John responded, but his tone was still mild. Not angry, then. Perhaps it would only take one more push to break down that wall.

"Please, John. It's just a couple of ears. Not dangerous at all."

"No danger?"

"Well, maybe just a liiittle danger. Just enough to make it fun."

John rolled his eyes, but he didn't say no, so Sherlock decided that was as good as a yes. "That's the spirit!" he cried, leaping up off the sofa.

"Does that mean you'll take the case?" Lestrade asked.

"Of course I'm taking the case!"

"Oh, brilliant," Donovan intoned under her breath.

"Yes, good," Lestrade said, giving her a look. "We're on our way to the morgue now. Care to join us? We'll. . . wait for you to get dressed." He gave Sherlock a meaningful once-over, as if he didn't expect him to get the hint. Of course he was planning to get dressed! He didn't want to get his best dressing gown all muddy.

"No. We'll take a taxi," he said casually. When they didn't move to leave, he followed up with, "Off with you then. Haven't you got a case to investigate? And I want to see the packaging too!"

"Oh, Sherlock," John spoke up. "Haven't you got something for Sergeant Donovan?"

"No," Sherlock said flatly. He knew what John was getting at, of course, but he wasn't going to do it. He had already told John that, but John never listened.

"Go on," John chided. "Like we talked about."

"I never promised," Sherlock rejoined sullenly.

"You want me to join you today, don't you?"

That was unfair, really. John couldn't hold that over his head, could he? A glance at John's face and posture told him that yes, indeed John could. Very well. If he must.

He dug in the pocket of his dressing gown and pulled out Harvey, which he handed to Gracie. Another search of his pockets yielded Donovan's inhaler. He held it out in her general direction without making eye contact.

"What do you say?" John coaxed.

"Thank you," he mumbled.

"Louder, please."

Sherlock finally glanced up, to find Donovan watching him with that little smirk on her face. How hateful.

"Thank you," he said again, in an overly gracious tone. Perhaps he should add a little bow, just to spite her.

"You're welcome, Sherlock," Donovan said. She held out her hand. For a moment, Sherlock considered tossing the inhaler over her shoulder and making her dive for it, but he resisted the temptation and dropped it into her palm. He deserved a medal, for certain.

* * *

Molly's surprise was written all over her face when she saw John walk into the morgue, but John didn't seem to notice, to Sherlock's relief. He hadn't told John about his visit to Molly's flat the other day, and he preferred John remain in ignorance.

"Ah, Molly," Sherlock said breezily, stepping ahead of Donovan, who had been leading the group. He didn't look back to see the look on her face, because he could already picture her cross expression in his mind. "I hear you have some ears to show us." Behind him he heard a snort from John, although he wasn't sure what was funny about it.

"Oh, yes. I was just about to pull them out of the cooler."

"Not embalmed then?"

"No, fairly fresh, actually. I'd say no more than three days," she said on her way to the cooler. She returned quickly carrying a red plastic container in her gloved hands. When she set it down and started to open the lid, John stepped up next to Sherlock with a look of interest on his face. Lestrade and Donovan, who had obviously already seen the ears and made their conclusions, such as they were, stayed back.

Molly reached into the box, pulled out an ear and set it carefully on a tray, and then repeated the process with another. She seemed not in the least bothered to be touching a detached ear, which was one of the reasons Sherlock found her less insufferable than most members of her gender.

Sherlock leaned in and inspected the ears. Not a set, that much was obvious. One was a man's and the other a woman's, judging by their size. Both fairly young, both caucasian, the woman's fair-skinned, the man's tanned and weathered from sun exposure. In fact, the man's had been recently sunburnt and was still peeling. The edge where they had been cut from the heads was ragged and uneven.

"The ears don't match," John observed.

"Dear John, always a step behind," Sherlock intoned, catching an elbow in the ribs for the comment. But a glance at John's face told him he wasn't angry, so he had taken it as a joke as Sherlock had intended.

"Ha ha." John smirked. He pointed to the inner edge of one of the ears. "This was cut with a rather dull blade. I think that lets out our medical students. They would have used a scalpel."

"Yes, I quite agree." Sherlock reached out to pick up the man's ear, but Molly swatted at his hand.

"Gloves," she reminded him. No thank you. Gloves left his hands a powdery mess and ruined his fine sense of touch. He needed to  _feel_  things, not just handle them.

John, who had already pulled on gloves, picked up the woman's ear, turned it over in his hands, then set it back down without saying anything. Sherlock leaned in and examined the woman's ear more closely, scrutinizing the helix, antihelix, tragus, and anti-tragus. The ear was small, neat, and well-formed, but otherwise unremarkable, with no blemishes or distinguishing marks. The man's ear was bigger, with evidence of repeated sun exposure going by the weathering of the top of the helix, but judging by the state of the rest of the ear, the man had been no older than mid-twenties.

"Were the subjects alive when these ears were removed?" Sherlock asked Molly.

"Subjects?" John said, eyebrow raised. "You DO know these ears came from human beings, don't you? REAL humans?"

"Of course I know that. I want to know if they were  _living_  human beings."

"Uh-huh." John's arms were folded and his eyebrow was still up, so Sherlock tried again.

"Were these. . . people still alive when the ears were removed?" He glanced at John, who nodded. Behind John, Donovan was watching the exchange with an expression of amusement on her usually sour face. It didn't suit her. Sherlock suppressed the temptation to stick out his tongue at her (he was being VERY good today, he reflected).

"No, post-mortem," Molly replied. That made sense. The ears were obviously sent as a message, possibly communicating that the job had been done.

"Where is the packaging?"

"I have it here," Molly said. She took a smaller cardboard box out of the plastic container and set it on the tray next to the ears. A length of string followed.

Ignoring the gloves Molly held out to him, Sherlock picked up the string first, and found that it was slippery, rather thicker than butchers' string, apparently made from nylon. A neat bow knot had been tied in it, but the string had been cut next to the knot, obviously to remove it from the package. Interesting, because bow knots were easily untied, but the recipient of the box had obviously not known that.

Next he inspected the flap of the box, where he found that the box was addressed to "S. Cushing" and that the name of the street was misspelled to "Charlote" but had been corrected with a squeezed-in "t".

Finally he opened the box to find it full of coarse salt, stained brownish-pink in places where the ears had touched it. The use of salt to preserve the ears cast further doubt on the theory that the ears had been sent by medical students, as they would have chosen a more effective preservative.

So then, the package had been sent by whomever had killed the owners of the ears: a man, judging by the handwriting, of little formal education and no medical knowledge, but who worked with his hands, as evidenced by the neat knot.

So if the ears had been sent to communicate a message, what was it? From a hired killer to his employer, giving proof that the job was done? Likely not, or she wouldn't have called the police straightaway. So were they meant to intimidate or distress the recipient of the package? He would know once he met this S. Cushing. Having finished his initial inspection, he pulled out his phone and took photos of both ears and all of the different parts of the packaging to examine more closely later.

"Right. I'll talk to the recipient now," he said, rubbing his hands together. How delightful to have something to occupy his mind!

"If you're finished with the packaging, we'll take it back to NSY and have it checked back into the evidence locker," Donovan said to Molly, who started slowly and methodically packing things away. The delay was annoying, to say the least. He had what he needed from the packaging. The key now lay with Ms S. Cushing, and the longer they stood here chatting, the more agitated he became. Finally he could stand it no longer.

"Perhaps you can embalm them as well, Molly, while you're at it," he sniped. "The rest of us will wait."

"Sherlock!" cried Molly, and her protest was accompanied by another elbow to the ribs from John. Ah, not good then.

* * *

The woman who met them at the door to the flat on Charlotte Street in Fitzrovia was petite, simply dressed, with a no-nonsense manner about her that Sherlock appreciated. On the far side of forty by at least a couple of years, although Lestrade had called her "young."

"Back again?" she said sharply to Lestrade, ignoring Sherlock and John. "I've already told you everything I know."

"This is the consultant I was telling you about, Ms Cushing," Lestrade put in hastily, gesturing toward Sherlock.

The woman turned her pale blue eyes on him. "I recognize you. Sherlock Holmes." Her voice was so even that Sherlock wasn't sure if she meant that as a compliment or an insult. Her gaze turned to John and her expression softened. "Oh, and Dr Watson! I didn't know you were still working together."

"Why yes, Ms Cushing, we are," Sherlock said brightly. He put a hand on John's back and steered him to the front of the group. "Dr Watson and I were hoping you'd be willing to answer a few questions."

"Oh, I thought you—," John joined in, with a sideways glance at Sherlock. "Right. Pleasure to meet you, Ms Cushing."

"Please, call me Susan." The woman stepped back to let them in, smiling now.

"And you may call me John," John replied, with his most charming smile in return. Excellent.

Susan gestured toward the sitting room, which was tidy and sparsely decorated, with just a few framed photos and knick-knacks on the mantel and an afghan over the back of the sofa. A half-finished piece of knitting lay on the coffee table where it had evidently been discarded when they rang the bell.

"Please, have a seat. John, would you like a cup of tea?"

"I'll take some," Lestrade spoke up hopefully from where he was still standing near the door. The woman looked surprised, as if she had forgotten he was there.

"Oh, yes," she said in a businesslike voice. "I'll just put the kettle on." With a last glance in John's direction, she bustled out. Sherlock thought as he watched her go that she certainly didn't act like a woman who was distraught over receiving a message regarding a murder.

John took a seat on the hard-looking sofa, which did not give when he made contact. He scooted over to make room for Sherlock, but Sherlock was more interested in the photos on the mantel. As he made his way over to the fireplace, he saw Lestrade move to the sofa, shaking his head.

"I don't know how you do that."

"Do what?" John asked innocently. He shifted a bit to get comfortable on the firm sofa, unsuccessfully it appeared.

"You know what I mean," Lestrade said.

"You could charm the little birdies out of the trees," Donovan put in, from her new position in a striped overstuffed chair. "We certainly weren't invited to sit and have tea the last time we were here."

Lestrade snorted. "I think her words were, 'Stay on the mat so you don't get mud on my clean floors.' And now here we are, sitting on her sofa like old friends."

John just shrugged. "If you're kind to people, they usually respond favorably," he said casually. But of course Sherlock thought that was rubbish. Being kind got you trodden on. What John did was different. Sherlock couldn't say what it was exactly, but somehow after John interacted with people, they suddenly became friendlier, more open and willing to share. It was most convenient.

Sherlock ignored the rest of the conversation happening behind him while he inspected the photos on the mantel. The first depicted a woman with a thin face and petite features, hair pulled up into a severe bun, surrounded by three little girls dressed in identical frilly frocks. The smallest sat on her lap, the tallest stood near her shoulder, and the other, presumably the middle sister, stood a slight distance away with a scowl etched on her pale face and blond ringlets covering one eye. The tallest girl was obviously Susan Cushing herself, so Sherlock deduced the others must be her mother and sisters.

The second photo was a wedding portrait, of a young bride and groom, standing under a saber arch. The groom was wearing what appeared to be a Naval dress uniform, with a blue jacket that had some sort of insignia on the collar and shoulder rank board, but Sherlock wasn't sure what it meant.

"John, have a look at this," he said without turning around, sure that John would dutifully come as requested. After a moment, just as he was about to repeat the summons, John appeared at his elbow, eyebrows raised. "Ah, John, what does this insignia mean?"

"I was army, not navy," John said mildly, but he took the photo anyway and squinted at the collar. "Looks like a turnback. I'd say midshipman." How useful John was!

John held out the photo, but Sherlock had already moved on to the next, which was of two women: a slightly younger Susan Cushing in a hideous pink satin frock, and the other the bride in the previous photo, dressed in her wedding gown.

At that moment, Ms Cushing herself bustled back into the room carrying a tray laden down with a silver tea service. "That's my sister Samantha at her wedding," she said, nodding at the photo in John's hand. "She made a lovely bride." She set the tray down onto the coffee table and began setting out the cups. "Do you take sugar, John?"

"Just milk for me, please." John crossed back to the sofa and began helping her serve the tea, which obviously pleased her no end.

"I'll take sugar in mine," Sherlock said, even though he hadn't been asked, because tea without sugar wasn't worth the effort it took to drink it. He took out his phone and snapped photos of all the pictures on the mantel, then moved on to the knick-knacks, the first of which was a small lantern made from deep blue glass overlaid with a henna design in gold, quite well-made and apparently fragile. He picked it up and turned it over, but the bottom held no symbols or maker's mark.

Susan Cushing appeared at his elbow with a cup of tea in one hand. With her other, she carefully but firmly removed the lantern from his grasp and exchanged it for the tea. "Mr Holmes, you said you had questions," she said sharply while carefully setting the lantern back onto the mantel. "What are they?"

"These are your mother and sisters," Sherlock said, pointing to the photo of the woman with the little girls.

Ms Cushing folded her arms. "That's not a question."

"Erm. . . This is you, and this is your youngest sister Samantha." He pointed to the smallest girl on the mother's lap. Ms Cushing said nothing to confirm or deny this deduction, so he plowed on. "What is your middle sister's name?"

"Sarah."

"Ah." Interesting, as her curt response made it quite obvious they didn't get on. "You two fought like a bag of cats, I see. To provoke your ire, she'd either have to be lazy, messy, or overly chatty. Hmm."

Ms Cushing folded her arms and fixed him with a glare. Possibly not good? He glanced to John for confirmation.

"What Sherlock means," John put in, hurrying up to Ms Cushing's other side, "is that your family is quite lovely. How blessed your mother was to have three beautiful daughters."

Ms Cushing's frown turned into a smile. "Oh, yes, Mummy loved to dress us all alike. Her little stair steps, she called us. Pity Sarah was always such a sourpuss about it."

"She was difficult to get along with then." Sherlock said. Ms Cushing gave him a sharp look, even though Sherlock could see nothing wrong with that question. John cleared his throat, and suddenly Sherlock realized where he had gone wrong and rephrased it as a question. "Was she difficult to get along with?"

"Oh, heavens yes," Susan said to John, even though it had been Sherlock who asked the question. "Sarah roomed with me for a bit, several years ago, but after a while I couldn't take her mess and temper any more so I asked her to move out. Nasty business."

"Where did she go?" Sherlock asked her back.

"She moved in with Samantha and her husband Eric for a bit, but they threw her out as well. Of course, Sarah blamed Eric, claimed he was a mean drunk, but we all know who started the trouble."

"And now?" John prompted.

"She lives alone in a flat in Vauxhall now. Better for everyone. We don't speak. In fact, I haven't seen her for months."

Another knick-knack caught Sherlock's eye, a small white box with a dried purple flower perched on top of it. He removed the flower and opened the box, to find it held a few chipped Jordan almonds in pastel colors. "And your youngest sister, Samantha?" he asked as he turned the box over to check the bottom.

"She lives in Deptford," Ms Cushing said. Frowning, she removed the box from Sherlock's hands, replaced it on the mantel, and set the flower back on top.

"Are you two close?" John asked, and when she turned back toward him Sherlock saw that frown morph back into a smile.

"I practically raised her after our mother died. She calls me at least once a week, and we go to coffee every other Tuesday. She and her husband are trying for a baby, but it's not going well, poor lamb. Of course it would be easier if her husband weren't always traveling."

"Oh, dear, I'm sorry to hear that." John said sympathetically. There was that voice again, the one that turned women into puddles at his feet. Or putty in his hands. But there was no time for that. Sherlock had all he needed here; it was time to move on.

"Susan, when you received the package—" John started to ask, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Right, well, it was lovely talking to you." He gave John a little push toward the door. "Thanks for the tea."

"Oh, are we leaving?" Donovan said, struggling to her feet from the chair which appeared loathe to let her go.

"John and I are," Sherlock said brusquely. "You may do as you like."

"If I recall, I have the car keys," Lestrade put in, but Sherlock shook his head.

"We'll take a taxi. Come, John." He strode out, sure that John would follow. Behind him he heard John making hurried apologies to Ms Cushing. It felt so good to have his presence at his side, keeping him on track. Every situation would come out right, he was sure of it, as long as John was in it with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) This is a real case, relayed to me by a forensic pathologist who did the autopsy on the unfortunate victim.
> 
> (2) Borrowed from "The Case of the Cardboard Box" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I promise I'll return it when I'm finished with it.


	16. Shock, take 2

Sherlock's delight in John's company turned to annoyance in the cab, as he immediately started asking questions, even though Sherlock was quite clearly busy with his phone. He had told the cabbie to head toward Vauxhall, but now he had to find the exact address for the middle sister's flat before they got there. John, as always, was a step behind in his reasoning.

"Why are we going to Vauxhall?"

No listings for Sarah Cushing in Vauxhall. Three for S. Cushing. The first Sherlock knew to be council flats, which he considered unlikely.

"Have you figured it out already? Who do the ears belong to?"

"Whom," Sherlock corrected automatically. The second listing was for a retirement village, so also unlikely. The third. . .

"That doesn't answer my question. You knew what I meant."

The third was on Jonathan Street near Tyers, which Sherlock recalled held blocks of mid-priced flats. That address was the most likely of the three.

"Never mind. Why do I bother?"

"I don't know," Sherlock responded absently. Leaning forward, he gave the cabbie the address on Jonathan Street, then sat back in his seat and grinned at John.

"Well, that was fun, right? What did you make of the little lantern?"

John gave him a curious look, then shrugged and rolled his eyes. "Can't say I noticed it particularly. Looked like maybe a knockoff Moroccan-style. They sell them at the Brick Lane Market. Mary loved to shop there."

"Oh no, this one was authentic, straight from Morocco. Did you see how she handled it?"

"I won't ask you how you know that," John said drily. "I suppose we are going to see the middle sister?"

"Excellent deduction, John!" Sherlock said, although of course it should have been obvious. John smiled and preened a bit, so the compliment hadn't gone amiss.

"Dare I ask why we are calling on her?"

"Because the package was meant for her," Sherlock said simply. Of course it had to have been, and he would know once he saw her reaction what it was meant to communicate. Surely John must already have figured that out. It was so blindingly obvious it wasn't even worth mentioning.

"Right."

Sarah Cushing's building was brick, four stories tall, and quite unremarkable in every way, on a street filled with block after block of similar buildings. Sherlock ran his finger down the tenant directory and found S. Cushing in flat 311. He pressed the buzzer and waited, but there was no response.

Glancing up, he spotted a camera pointed at them from just above eye level for him, although for John it would have been aimed at the top of his head. Perfect.

He scanned the list of tenants again. On floor three, he found an H. Roberts in 403, and an N. Hurley in 405. These, he deduced, were both single women. Excellent. Glancing around, he spotted a stand of daisies still in bloom near the corner of the building. Those would do nicely.

He strode over, plucked a handful of daisies and arranged them hastily in his hand. "John, give me your wedding ring," he ordered.

"My ring?"

"Yes. It's only temporary." He held out his hand behind him and waited for John to hand him the ring. A few seconds later he heard a sigh, then the warm metal hit his palm. Very good. He pushed the buzzer for flat 403, and quickly pulled John up beside him so they would both be visible in the camera's eye, shoving the flowers into John's hand as he did so.

A woman's voice, obviously elderly, came through the speaker. "Who is it?" she asked querulously. Perfect.

"Hello, ma'am," Sherlock said cheerfully into the camera. "You don't know us, but my mate here is the boyfriend of your neighbor Miss Hurley in flat 405 (John made a little squawking sound, so Sherlock pinched his arm a bit to shut him up). He's been trying to get up the nerve to propose to her. . ." Here he held up the ring, quickly so she wouldn't see it was a man's ring. "But he's a bit nervy. Practically having kittens on the way here."

"Really?" She definitely sounded interested.

"Yes, Ma'am. If you don't mind buzzing us in, we'd like to make it a surprise, you see. We'd be so grateful," he added in his most winsome voice. He could charm the little birdies out of the trees as well, when he felt like it. If only Donovan were here to see it.

"Oh, how lovely!" The old woman cried. A second later the buzzer sounded.

"Thank you so much!" Sherlock exclaimed as he opened the door. As soon as they were inside, he tossed the flowers into the corner and handed John back his ring. "Finally."

"Next time perhaps you could play the nervous suitor," John snarked as he slipped the ring back onto this finger, where it fit nicely into the groove.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. Who would believe that?" Sherlock said over his shoulder on his way to the stairs.

John's response was a snort. "Yes, who indeed would believe anyone would agree to marry Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock wasn't sure what to make of that, so he ignored it. He took the stairs two at a time up to the third floor, then paused to wait for John who with his shorter legs couldn't quite keep up.

"Not a word," John snapped as he finally reached the top stair, but his mouth was twisted up in amusement, so he wasn't angry, Sherlock decided.

"I waited for you."

"I see the look on your face. Go on ahead if you don't like to wait. We'll see how long it takes you to get thrown out on your ear without me."

"My record is seventeen seconds," Sherlock joked. "Twelve if Donovan is there to provoke me."

"Ha!"

At the door to 311 Sherlock paused to compose himself before knocking quietly. There was a short delay, then he heard a shuffling sound and a woman's voice came, muffled and thin, "Who's there?"

"Neighbours checking in," Sherlock responded pleasantly.

Another short delay, before finally the door opened a crack and a face peered out around the security chain. A red, blotchy face, surrounded by a cloud of frizzy, out-of-control blond hair. Eyes swollen and rimmed with red. Dressing gown over wrinkled pyjamas. Crumpled tissue clutched in her skinny fingers. Interesting.

"I don't know you," she said in a tremulous voice.

"Ah, Ms Cushing, we'd like to talk to you about some ears—" Sherlock began cheerfully.

The woman flinched, which is exactly the response he was looking for. "Please, I'm ill—"

"Just a few questions," he said briskly, putting his hand on the door.

"I'm not up for visitors," she said, and closed the door firmly, nearly pinching his fingers in the process. Not that it mattered. He had the information he needed to make the conclusion that the package was indeed intended for her, and not only that: she knew who had sent it and what it meant. But he needed to look at the packaging one more time, he realized, to determine where it had been sent from, as he didn't think the postmark was clear in the photo he had taken.

"Well, that's a shame," John said from behind him. "I suppose we can get Lestrade and come back—"

"No need," Sherlock breezed. "I have what I came here for. Onward to NSY." He headed toward the exit at a fast clip, leaving John to struggle along behind.

"Whatever did you get from that?" John asked from behind him.

"Oh, John, as always, you see but do not—" He broke off, because in front of him he saw a figure coming around the corner from the direction of the stairs—a rather large woman wearing a long nightgown, hair in curlers, carrying something he realized suddenly was a cricket bat. Judging by the expression on her face, she wasn't in the mood to chat. Sherlock stopped so suddenly that John plowed into him from behind.

"This way, John," Sherlock said hastily, grabbing John by the front of the jacket and pulling him down the corridor the other direction.

"Oy!" the woman shouted after them. "I've already phoned the police!"

"Ms Hurley, I presume?" John said drily as they hurried along.

"Excellent deduction, John." Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder to find that the aforementioned Ms Hurley was gaining on them, with a murderous glint in her eye. "Oops," he whispered.

John, who had also been looking back over his shoulder, turned to him with an expression of mild alarm. "Are there back stairs?"

"I certainly hope so. A bit faster, I think." Sherlock picked up the pace, turned a corner, and was confronted with a door with a push bar. A sign at eye level proclaimed  **Emergency exit only. This door is alarmed**.

Footsteps behind told him Ms Hurley was still gaining on them, despite their faster pace. They were going to have to open that door, as he could see no other way out. Ignoring the sign, he pushed on the bar. Beside him, John scrunched up his face, hands moving toward his ears.

But no alarm sounded. The door opened without fanfare onto a metal outside fire escape ladder, which Sherlock made no delay in hurrying down, pulling John along tripping and stumbling, to the ground in the alleyway. He didn't have to look back to check if the woman following them, because he could hear her footsteps thundering on the metal stairs. His chin had gone itchy, but he couldn't slow down to scratch it.

"This way," Sherlock said, tugging John to the left, deeper into the alleyway.

"No, to the street," John argued, pulling to the right. "There'll be a gate at the end of that alley."

"We can go over." Sherlock scratched at his face, which was itchy all over now. How annoying.

"No, YOU can go over. This way."

By this time, Ms Hurley was almost to the first floor. Looking up and down the alleyway, Sherlock realized John was right, but not for the reason he thought. The other end of this alleyway was blocked, not by a gate, but by another building: the staff entrance to the Vauxhall surgery, which would surely be locked.

He didn't bother to explain his reasoning to John, just took off down the alleyway toward the street, just as the woman's feet hit the ground behind them. Why was she still chasing them? They had left the building, which was what she wanted, wasn't it? He glanced back to find her with her nightgown hitched up around her hips, the fabric clutched in one hand, running flat out. Her tan curlers bounced around her head like sausage rolls.

They turned one corner, then another, and came out onto Jonathan Street. Ms Hurley was farther behind now, far enough that Sherlock thought they could possibly make it to the next alleyway without her seeing them. Grabbing John by the arm he hurried down the pavement, past the butcher shop, and ducked into the alleyway before their pursuer had rounded the previous corner. Safe!

For a moment, all he heard was John breathing hard, then a giggle. Suddenly Sherlock realized the ridiculousness of the situation and started giggling too as he scratched at his itchy face. Very quickly the giggle turned into a muffled cough. Oh, he was sweaty too, and the tight fist had hold of his chest again, blocking out the air.

He leaned forward and braced his hands on his knees, trying not to cough in front of John, who would surely bundle him off for another hated nebulizer treatment, or even worse, back to the surgery for another exam, when all he wanted was to go to NSY and have a look at that cardboard box.

Maybe he could take a puff without John noticing. Still leaning over, he reached into his pocket, felt around, and pulled out a dummy. Nope. He returned it to his pocket and felt around in the other side, this time coming up with Harvey. No again! Where was that damn inhaler anyway?

"Looking for this?" came John's voice. When Sherlock glanced that direction, he saw John's outstretched hand, with the inhaler resting on his palm. "You dropped it on the stairs. Lucky for you I found it. Otherwise, you'd be in a lot of trouble right now."

With a grunt Sherlock snatched the inhaler from John's hand and quickly took a puff. Oh, that taste was so foul! But it was worth it, because within a few seconds the itchiness had decreased and the iron hand released his windpipe. Much better. Off to NSY.

He stood up, stepped out onto the pavement and glanced around to make sure the coast was clear, and stuck his hand up for a taxi. Within seconds, a black cab came to a halt beside the kerb, as usual. He didn't understand why John thought it was difficult to find a cab in London. It was a simple matter of signaling clearly, and one would appear.

He slid into the seat and scooted along the bench so John could join him, then leaned over to tell the cabbie to take them to NSY. But as soon as he said it, John chimed in with "Nope. 221 Baker Street, please," and firmly shut the window.

"I need to go to NSY," Sherlock explained, although he shouldn't have to explain himself to John. Sherlock called the shots and John was simply supposed to follow along and make accidentally insightful comments. That was their deal, and John knew it.

"You need another nebulizer treatment," John said briskly as the cab pulled away from the kerb and pulled a u-turn to head in the direction of Baker Street.

"No, I'm fine," Sherlock responded just as firmly. He reached for the sliding window, but John batted his hand away.

"You can go to hospital, if you'd prefer."

"No, I would not prefer. I don't need either of those things. I took a puff. I'm  _fine_." He wasn't whining, really he wasn't. He was just explaining himself, but the expression on John's face told Sherlock that he thought otherwise.

"You are  _not_  fine. You are still wheezing."

"No I'm not!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Yes, you are. I know wheezing when I hear it. Now sit back and follow your doctor's orders," John commanded sternly.

Sherlock folded his arms and slouched down into the seat with a fierce scowl. It appeared that John had changed the game plan without telling him. How unfair.

* * *

Oh, the hated nebulizer treatment. The noisy machine made it impossible to think! And his back hurt from having to sit up straight when he wanted to flop. John's nagging wasn't helping his thought processes either. Every time he tried to collect his thoughts, John would interrupt with some bit of advice that simply wasn't helpful.

"Sit up, please, or you'll spill the medicine."

"I am sitting up!" He held up his phone a little higher so he could examine the photos he had taken of the ears.  _Helix, anti-helix, tragus, anti-tragus. . ._

"No, you're slouching. If you can't sit up straight like a grown-up, I'll have to get you one of those little masks that look like a fish."

"You wouldn't." The woman's ear was petite and very fair, the man's much larger and coarse-looking, the skin tanned and wrinkled from sun-exposure.

"Yes, I would. I'd strap it right to your face and take photos." John set Gracie down on the floor, and she immediately crawled over and pulled herself up on Sherlock's trouser leg.

"What shall I call this case?" John said from the kitchen. At least, that was what Sherlock thought he said. It was difficult to hear over the roaring of the nebulizer. Did it really have to be so loud?

"Call it?" he said vaguely. He flipped to the photo of the packaging and discovered that indeed the postmark was unclear. He could make out the letters "Shee—" at the beginning, but the rest of the word was smudged. Perhaps "Sheering"?

John came back in from the kitchen, drying his hands on a tea towel. "Yes, for my blog. I was thinking of calling it The Case of the Cardboard Box, but that's boring."

"You've gone back to writing your blog?" Maybe it was Sheepcote, but he doubted they had a post office there.

"Yes. I posted the Case of the Spinster Sisters yesterday."

"Oh," Sherlock grunted dismissively around the mouthpiece. "Who cares what you call it? Why do people care anyway?" Maybe the first "e" wasn't an "e" at all, but an "o", in which case it could be Shoeburyness on the coast. . .

"I suppose they like you," John said drily. "Don't ask me why. You're insufferable."

"No, I'm not," Sherlock scowled. He flipped back to the picture of the family again. He was sure the package had been for Sarah, but why? She obviously hadn't asked someone to commit murder for her, as she had been so upset by the package that she had taken ill. He zoomed the photograph in to focus on her grumpy face.

"Yes, you are," John said with a snort. He checked the machine, patted Gracie on the head, and went back into the kitchen. Good. Now maybe Sherlock would be able to concentrate. But no such luck. "Maybe I'll call it the Case of the Detached Attached Earlobe," John called over his shoulder from his position at the sink.

Sherlock frowned at the photograph. "Attached?" he asked distractedly.

"The woman had a fully attached earlobe. It's fairly rare."

Attached earlobe. . . Sherlock zoomed out from Sarah, and zoomed in on the mother. Neat features, petite ears, fully attached earlobes! "Genetic?" he demanded, sitting up suddenly. Gracie, who had been clinging to his trouser leg with her fist in her mouth, let go and stood tottering on her own. Sherlock was so focused on the photo that he barely noticed her.

"Not so straightforward as dominant or recessive, but yes—"

"Brilliant!" Of course! The youngest daughter, Samantha, must be the owner of the female ear, and the other, with the sun damage. . . Of course! He flipped back to the photo of the postmark just as Gracie took one wobbly step unsupported toward the coffee table.

"Hey, look at that!" John cried, running forward and catching Gracie before she pitched headfirst into the coffee table. Sherlock ignored them because his mind had finally latched onto the solution: The illegible postmark must say "Sheerness", a coastal town at the mouth of the Thames. He would bet anything Samantha's Midshipman husband had sailed out of that port within the past three days, pausing just long enough to post a package!

"Sherlock, did you see that?! She took a step! Good show, Niki!"

And if that was the case, then it was also a safe bet that the man's ear had belonged to a fellow sailor, who had been having an affair with the youngest sister. Grinning triumphantly, he pulled out his phone to text Lestrade to detain the sister's husband at his next port.

After he had opened his messages, he froze with his thumb above the screen. Something was off. Something. . .

He slowly lifted his head and for the first time really focused on John, who was making baby talk at a laughing Gracie with a huge smile on his face. In his mind Sherlock rewound the last bit of the conversation. . .

"WHAT did you say?" Sherlock demanded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, interlude's over. Back to the primary case. You may wish to leave a comment at this point. You could say something like "What a twist!" or "I thought so!", or "I have no idea what's going on!"
> 
> If you don't remember who Niki is, you could go back and re-read chapter 9.


	17. Denial, take 3

"WHAT did you say?" Sherlock demanded.

John's brow furrowed. "Oh. . . um. . . Detached attached earlobe?"

"No, after that." Sherlock corrected.

John's eyes cut to the side. Not thinking—calculating. "Gracie took a step, on her own. Did you see her?"

Sherlock set aside the nebulizer mouthpiece and stood up, staring at John intently. "What did you CALL her?"

There was a pause wherein the only sound was the whirr of the nebulizer motor. John was chewing the inside of his cheek—Sherlock could see his jaw twitching—but he didn't speak.

Finally John blinked. "You should turn that off, if you're not using it. You'll waste the medicine," he said in a clinical tone.

Without dropping his examination of John, Sherlock reached down and shut off the machine. The silence that followed was deafening. Gracie bounced happily in John's arms, and John turned his attention to her, ducking his head and patting her back. "Who's a clever girl?" he said, with a forced smile.

"John," Sherlock reminded him sharply. He wasn't letting him get off that easily.

A sigh, then John said quietly, "Yes, all right. Niki. I called her Niki."

"Why?" Sherlock asked immediately. Niki, he realized, must be the girl in the photo, not the boy as he had thought. Mary's real name, and—possibly?—also the password to the thumb drive!

"It was Mary's pet name for her."

"Why?"

Another sigh and a hard swallow from John. "She said it meant Grace."

Sherlock jumped on that. "In Swedish?"

"How did you—" John shook his head. "Never mind. Of course you knew that. Yes, Swedish."

Sherlock took a step closer, studying John curiously. "What else do you know?"

John shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. "Not much. I didn't want to know. I've told you before, I didn't want to know about her past. It's too risky."

"But don't you think it might be more risky not to know?"

"No, it's safer to stay far away from it entirely. That's what she said." John's mouth went tight. "I've asked you to drop it. But you haven't, have you?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to shift uncomfortably, but John wasn't finished. "You've been investigating. No, don't try to deny it," he added in response to Sherlock's intake of breath. "I know you've got Mary's laptop."

Sherlock's brain was busily formulating a protestation of innocence, but John's next words derailed that thought. "You've been snooping in my room; I did the same." John's voice wasn't as angry as Sherlock had expected. Maybe that meant he hadn't found everything? He had obviously found the laptop, but what else had he found? The photographs? The thumb drive?

"Your eyes are giving you away," John said with a resigned expression. "Please don't. Sherlock, please stop. Just. . . stop. If Mary had wanted us to know about her past, she would have told us."

Sherlock froze in place, not sure what to do next. Continue to deny? Tell John everything? Tell him some of what he had found? John said he didn't want to know what Mary may have been up to, but the photograph of John—what about that? It had nothing to do with Mary—well, it did, but only indirectly. He hadn't told John about it before because he was afraid of what he would find out, obviously. Was that reason enough for not telling him now?

"You were the one who told me to forgive her," John was continuing in a reasonable voice. "Part of that is not continually digging up past sins. I've been trying to live up to that."

"I've found something," Sherlock blurted out, without even realizing he had made a decision.

John shook his head firmly. "No, I've told you I don't want to know. Whatever she did, it can stay in the past where it belongs."

"Not about Mary," Sherlock clarified. "About you."

John's eyebrows scrunched up. "About me? What—there's nothing to find." His voice didn't sound guilty, but instead completely mystified. Sherlock studied his posture—slightly defensive, but that was to be expected, given the nature of their conversation. Head cocked to the side. Upper lip pulled up, wrinkling the nose. Clearly confused, not guilty. Would he still be so confused once he saw the photograph?

Without another word, Sherlock turned and strode out of the sitting room, took the stairs two at a time up to his bedroom. Behind him he heard John calling, "Sherlock? Where are you going?"

He found the photograph where he had left it, undisturbed in the compartment behind his bedside table. Good job he had moved it when he did, or John might have found it. The other photos, of Mary and her brother, were leaned up against it, but he left those behind, since John clearly didn't want to know anything about them.

When he got back to the sitting room, John was sitting on the sofa with Gracie on his lap. He raised his eyebrows at the envelope in Sherlock's hands.

"What's that then?" he asked in a curious tone.

Sherlock couldn't think of an explanation, so he just traded the envelope for Gracie, who immediately snuggled in against his shoulder with her thumb in her mouth, tiny fingers entwined in his hair. While John took his time studying the envelope, Sherlock started pacing. Two steps to the left, pivot, two steps to the right, bounce Gracie on his shoulder, repeat. . . Try not to look at John, try to wait patiently. . .

"Look at it already!" he snapped finally, after John had turned the envelope over in his hands at least twice.

"Oh, I'm sorry. You didn't provide any instructions."

Sherlock didn't respond to that comment, as it was obviously sarcasm. How annoying. John gave a hrumph, and lifted the flap on the envelope. He reached in and extracted the photo so slowly that Sherlock thought he would go mad. On with it! Now that he had decided to share some of his findings with John, he was impatient to get it over with. Like ripping off a plaster—it only hurts for a moment, so may as well do it quickly.

Finally John finished removing the photos and set the envelope on the coffee table. He squinted at the first photo, of himself and Major McMasters, with his head cocked to the side. After a moment he looked up at Sherlock with a perplexed expression.

"What am I meant to—?"

Sherlock gave an impatient huff. "There's another photo."

"All right," John said, still looking quite puzzled. He put the first photo behind the second, and immediately his confused expression dropped. Eyes blank, mouth slightly open, face slack. John sat staring at the photo, frozen. Sherlock froze as well. Was John still breathing? He rather thought not. John's reaction was obviously shock and proved two things: 1) he did indeed recognize the scene depicted in the photo, and 2) it was traumatic for him. But did it prove guilt as well? No sweating, no nervous swallow, just blank.

After John had sat completely motionless for over thirty seconds, Sherlock could no longer contain himself. "John?" he prompted, hesitantly, through a throat that had suddenly gone dry.

John blinked. "Where did you get this photo?" he asked in a strained voice.

"Tell me what's going on there," Sherlock said immediately instead of answering.

Now the hard swallow. "This is not—I didn't—this isn't what it looks like."

"Then tell me what's really going on," Sherlock insisted.

"Do you think I—Who even took this photo? No one was—There wasn't—".

Why was John stammering? Was it guilt that tied his tongue? Sherlock was starting to feel a hint of alarm now at the beads of sweat that had appeared on John's brow. He would have said that John couldn't have been involved in a massacre, but he also knew that people acted in unexpected ways when put in extreme circumstances, perhaps suffering from traumatic events. . . "Please, John, tell me. Please."

Another hard swallow, then John said reluctantly, "This was in. . . Golestan. Well, not in, but near it."

"The Golestan Massacre," Sherlock suggested. John started a bit, which only confirmed the suspicion that had been lingering at the back of Sherlock's mind from the moment he had seen those search results.

"No, not—" John glanced up, and Sherlock caught a sudden glimpse of hurt in his eyes, mixed in with the confusion. He didn't understand why John would be hurt. "I mean, this photo doesn't show the massacre, if. . . that's what you're thinking."

"I don't know what to think yet. If it doesn't show the massacre, then tell me what it shows," Sherlock demanded.

For a long moment John just sat and stared at the photo with his brow furrowed and his lips pressed together, breathing loudly through his nose. Sherlock waited, until his patience was finally rewarded. "Ahmed and Nasrallah—these two men," John began in a soft, pain-filled voice, . "They were brothers, both in the Afghan army. We worked with them on a daily basis. I was training Nasrallah to be a medic. I thought I knew them. . ."

Sherlock waited nearly a full minute, until he couldn't stand the silence any longer. "Then what?"

"Ahmed was obsessed with a girl in Golestan, Darya. Lovely young lady, lovely family. . ." John's voice broke, but after a tight breath, he continued. "She didn't want him. Her father tried to get him to leave them alone. Chris—McMasters, my CO—had warned him to back off, but he insisted she was meant for him. Nasrallah was just a kid. He didn't know what was going on; he was just following his brother. So they went to her house at night, and murdered her and her whole family. Massacred them all. Even the neighbors who came to investigate. All dead.

"When Chris got wind of what had happened, he knew it was them. He told me to get my weapon and come with him. I didn't even know what it was about until I saw them. He was shouting at them in Pashto. I didn't understand much, but I got the gist of it, especially when he said her name. He made them both get on the ground and shot them in the head, right in mid-sentence. I never fired."

"But you didn't stop him, and you never told, either." He meant it just as a statement of facts, but Sherlock realized after he said it that John might take it as an accusation.

"McMasters was my CO," John said simply, as if that explained everything. "No one ever came 'round asking."

"But you could have gone to his CO," Sherlock pressed.

"I knew McMasters. He was my friend. This wasn't like him at all. I couldn't - He had a wife and new baby waiting for him at home. If he had gone to prison, they would have got nothing." John furrowed his brow. "Now you never told me where you got this photo. Where did it come from?"

"I found it in the master bathroom at your flat. It was hidden behind some towels."

"But I never—I didn't even know it existed! Oh—you think Mary. . ."

"Yes."

"But where did she get it? Who took it?"

"Corporal Quill Wood."

John's eyebrows flew up and his jaw dropped in surprise. No—more than surprise, shock, Sherlock decided. "Quill? Quill took it?!"

"Yes." One handed, Sherlock upended the envelope and showed John the little scrap of paper that floated out. "Mary met with him."

John inspected the paper, turning it around and squinting at the loopy writing. "This isn't Mary's handwriting," he said finally.

"Yes I know. Do you know whom it belongs to?"

"Not that I can think of. Is it Quill's?"

"No, it's a woman's handwriting."

"Did Quill give her the photo? Why would he do that?" John asked incredulously.

"No, Corporal Wood said there was a man who came to him a few weeks before Mary died and demanded the photo. Presumably he gave it to Mary, who contacted Wood to confirm the story."

"Why would he give it to Mary?" John's breathing had picked up speed, and his jaw was twitching again from chewing the inside of his cheek.

"I assume to blackmail her or threaten her in some way. She never mentioned any of this to you?"

"Not a word. I wonder if that's why she was upset." John looked up at Sherlock with bewilderment written on his face. Corrugator supercilii and depressor anguli oris were contracted, which Sherlock hadn't seen in several days, not since the riverbank, and now the center of his lower lip was elevated, chin wrinkled from contraction of the mentalis muscle. Sherlock knew in a clinical fashion that such contraction was involuntary in extreme emotional distress, but knowing that did nothing to help him in this situation. This was  _John_ , not some abstract figure in a textbook. "God, why didn't she just  _tell_  me?" John cried. "I would have explained everything!"

Please, no more tears, Sherlock thought frantically. No more tears; he didn't know how to respond to a very real John in such pain. "This man. . . From his description, he sort of looked like you."

John didn't react for a moment, his face still contorted with emotion. Finally he said, "What? He—he looked like me?"

"Yes, from the description."

"Oh. I don't—It wasn't me," John said finally.

"No, of course not. Wood knows you; he would have recognized you, of course. But later I think I saw him."

"Saw him?" John cried in alarm. "Where?!"

"I had gone to see one of my contacts—"

"You mean one of your homeless network."

"She's not homeless; she's a hacker," Sherlock protested.

"Why were you seeing a hacker?"

Mm—no, best not go there. "That's beside the point," he responded irritably.

"What is the point then?" John had gone back to staring vacantly at the photo.

"I'm getting to it! When I was on the way home, I couldn't get a cab on that street, so I was walking, and I saw a man walking toward us on the pavement. At first I thought it was you, and thought surely you must have spotted us, but then he went into a store—"

John's head popped up. "Hang on, spotted US?" he said with narrowed eyes.

"Yes, he was only about a hundred meters away."

Sherlock suddenly noticed that John had sat up straighter, and his anguished expression had morphed into one of anger, with eyebrows pulled together and nostrils flared, although Sherlock didn't understand why. "Who is US?"

"Well, Gracie and me, of course," Sherlock replied blithely. He was about to go on, but John jumped to his feet.

"You took my daughter to a DRUGS DEN?!" John shouted.

So that was the reason behind the change in expression. Oops. Time to deflect. "Stop shouting; you're hurting Gracie's ears." It was the truth, after all. Gracie had tucked her head in against his shoulder with a whimpering sound.

"Don't try to put me off," John persisted with a wave of his finger in Sherlock's face.

"It wasn't a drugs den," Sherlock explained hastily, patting Gracie on the back in an attempt to reassure her. "It was a flat. . . sort of. It was perfectly safe. Tweaker is a. . . lovely young lady," he finished dubiously.

John was breathing hard through his nose now. "You took my daughter to a flophouse to meet a hacker named  _Tweaker_ ," he bit out between clenched teeth.

Must get this conversation back on track, Sherlock thought. "John, that's beside the point! As always you focus on inconsequential details!"

John leaned in, and Sherlock found himself taking an involuntary step back, startled by the intensity on John's face. "Perhaps I haven't been  **clear**  enough with you. You  **don't**  take my  **daughter**  to meet  **contacts**." Each word was punctuated with a wave of his finger dangerously close to Sherlock's nose. "In fact, don't take her on cases at all!"

"Mrs Hudson was busy!" Sherlock cried, desperate for some way to defend his actions.

"Then you DON'T GO!"

"Yes, all right! Fine!" Sherlock conceded quickly. "If I agree, can we get back to the important bit?"

"And what is that?"

"The important bit is that man is out there, and he might be dangerous."

"Right, noted. Perhaps you should give me my gun back."

"I haven't got it."

"But you know where it is."

Sherlock hesitated. "Someone is holding it for me. I can get it."

"Please do. Now if I could have the laptop back, please, since it is my property." John reached for Gracie, but Sherlock hugged her a little tighter and didn't pass her over.

"Yes, of course." But Sherlock stood his ground and didn't move toward the stairs.

"Now, please." John curved his fingers in a little "gimme" gesture, and Sherlock reluctantly put Gracie in his arms.

"Yes, I'm going, I'm going."

* * *

**Enter Password**

**_Niki_**

**INCORRECT PASSWORD. ONE TRY REMAINING**


	18. Suspicion

* * *

(16 September)

**Enter Password**

**_Niki_**

**INCORRECT PASSWORD. ONE TRY REMAINING**

Sherlock leaned back on his bed and closed his eyes in frustration. He had been so sure! It must be Niki! The photo had been labeled Abbi and Niki. He had thought Abbi was the girl and Niki was the boy, but John's revelation had convinced him he had it backward. Niki had to be Mary's real name, and therefore the password for the thumb drive.

He tucked his fingertips under his chin in thought. What had John said? That Mary had told him "Niki" meant "Grace" in Swedish. Searching his mind palace, he realized that wasn't true. The word for "Grace" in Swedish was "nad", not a name and not even close to Niki. If Niki were short for Nicole or Nicola, then it would mean "victorious people", but those were Greek forms. Swedish didn't even have a feminine form of that name: the closest would be Nils or Niklas.

He remembered that the thumb drive that Mary had given John had been labeled with AGRA, which she said were her initials, so how could her real name be Nicole? The only option was that Niki was a nickname, and her real name was something different.

Niki. . . Niki. . . Was there a Swedish name that could be shortened to Niki? One that meant Grace? Anna or Hannah meant Grace in Hebrew, and the Swedish form of Anna was. . . Annika! It fit all the criteria as he saw them: Swedish, meant Grace, could be shortened to Niki, and started with A.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but then he hesitated. This was his final attempt at the password. If he was wrong, the information would be deleted and lost forever. Maybe that would be for the best, he thought fatalistically. John and he could get on with life. Gracie could grow up with a pleasantly sanitized image of her mother. John could remember his wife the way in which he wanted. And Sherlock could bury his questions in a back room of his mind palace, or delete them entirely and move on.

Thus resigned, he put his fingers to the keys.

**Enter Password**

**_Annika_**

This time, instead of the message he was used to seeing, the login screen disappeared and was replaced by a dialogue box. WELCOME AGRA, it proclaimed at the top, and below that was a list of files.

Sherlock sat in stunned silence and blinked at the screen. He was  _in_. Just like that, all of Mary's secrets were laid bare for his review. The image of a blissfully ignorant future popped like a soap bubble. Of course, even though he had access now, he could choose not to use it. He could still delete it all and walk away, but he knew that was impossible. The genie couldn't be stuffed back into the bottle once it was released.

Swallowing hard, he scanned down through the list of files. They were arranged in reverse chronological order, with the newest on top. The very first file jumped out at him: A portable document file called Star. Star, like the name of the person who wanted to meet with Mary.

Curiosity took over and he double clicked on the file without a second thought. It was a mock-up of a passport, but what immediately caught his eye was that the photo was of Mary.

He pulled the laptop closer and scrutinized the photo more carefully. No, the nose was slightly different, the eyes a shade more green than blue. NOT Mary, but someone who looked an awful lot like her. Was this the mysterious Star, who had emailed Mary looking for help to escape?

A memory surfaced, of Corporal Wood looking at Mary's photo and saying the nose looked different. Did that mean that Star had been the woman who visited him, and not Mary as Sherlock had supposed? At this point, Sherlock classified that as a theory, but not one that he could easily test.

The name on the passport was Stella Maria Bergstrom and an address was listed in Stockholm, a flat in one of the less affluent districts, if Sherlock's memory served (which of course it did). Whoever she was, this woman likely had the key to what had happened to Mary, or at least could help him understand her last few days and perhaps give some closure to John. He had always considered "closure" to be useless, a wasted sentiment, but seeing how John was suffering, blaming himself for her death, gave him a different perspective. Suddenly closure, the ability to put the past behind them, seemed vitally important, if only to help put the pieces of John back together.

He gave a quick glance at the rest of the files on the drive, and discovered all of them had been last updated over three years ago, which meant they preceded John and Mary's relationship and therefore were of no interest to him. He had no more desire to dig up Mary's past sins than John did.

After committing the address and details from the passport to memory, he went to the web and began searching for traces of Stella Bergstrom. It took only a few minutes to find the address listed on the fake passport, then a plane ticket in that name from London to Stockholm, three days before Mary's car was found. Three days. . . which meant it was the same day Mary died. Was there a possibility Star/Stella had something to do with her death? Mary was obviously trying to help her, but what if the woman had turned on her and murdered her to cover her tracks? Or what if. . .

He pulled up the passport photo again, leaned back in his chair and stared at it. Two similar-looking women. . . so which one was buried in that yellow pine box?

Shaking his head, he kept searching, and found records, only two weeks ago, of someone by the name of Stella Maria Bergstrom hiring a car in Stockholm and returning it three days later in Malmo with over 1,400 kilometers added to the odometer. Sherlock knew that the distance between those two cities was just over 1,200 kilometers, so the driver had gone elsewhere in the meantime, somewhere within 200 kilometers of Malmo, but where?

After a bit more digging, he came up with a rental agreement for Stella Bergstrom on Hards Vag, in a sketchy area of Malmo. Google maps revealed a run-down four-story building with a facade of peeling paint over chipped brick. Sagging, faded blue-striped awning, dodgy-looking front door and over it, he could just make out—Yes! A security camera!

It took nearly two hours to hack into the camera footage, not due to any high-tech security system, but rather because the technology, like the building, was old and badly in need of upgrade. By then it was after two in the morning, but Sherlock wasn't ready to quit, not when he was so close to the answer. Well,  _an_  answer anyway.

He stuffed his pillow behind his back, settled in, and started watching the live feed for the front door of the building. As it was the middle of the night, not much was happening at the moment. A stray dog ran past and paused to relieve itself in the alcove. A man in a watch cap, obviously a drugs dealer, loitered just outside of the glow of the streetlight, but after a few minutes he too moved on.

Sherlock sank down a little lower on his bed, chin nearly on his chest. His eyes slid shut, but he forced them open again. Just watch a bit longer. Just a bit. . . must focus. . . Nothing happening. . . boring. . . Within a few moments, he was fast asleep, with his neck bent at an uncomfortable angle against the headboard and the computer sliding half-off his lap.

* * *

_He sits cross-legged in the rain in the middle of a damp wooden bridge. Droplets soak his hair and snake their way into his collar and down his neck. The roar of the rushing water below fills his ears. It is nearly dark, the only light coming from a dim streetlamp just before the curve._

_Another sound joins the cacophony: the whine of a car engine, moving fast, pitch changing as the driver shifts gears. And then headlights appear from around the curve, headed for his position but he can't move. He is frozen in place._

_A black car is approaching quickly, much faster than warranted by the conditions. When the car reaches the curve he catches a glimpse, through the downpour, of the driver's face in the illumination of the streetlamp: mouth a red slash, wet blond hair slicked back from a very white face mottled with purple and blue bruising. A crown of crushed, wilted flowers surrounds her head._

_The mouth opens in a silent scream, and then the brakes screech and squeal like a wild animal. The car fishtails, corrects, fishtails some more, and goes over the edge just before the bridge. He tries to cry out but no sound will come out of his mouth, and he still can't move although every muscle strains to run to the edge and leap into the water to save her._

Sherlock popped awake with a start at the sound of the bin lorry rumbling by. It was still dark outside, and a glance at the laptop screen told him it was just past five in the morning, so he had only been sleeping for about three hours.

He blinked to clear his vision, then something else caught his eye from the security video feed. A woman, about Mary's height but thinner, had stopped in front of the doorway and was letting herself in with a key. She was turned away from the camera, looking down. The hair that peeked out from under her red beanie-style hat was darker, and longer, than the photo on the passport, but that could be expected given the passage of time.

Sherlock took a screenshot, then zoomed in and examined what he could see of the woman's face closely. All he could make out was fair skin and pink cheeks (likely due to the weather). Zooming out, he saw that she wore black gloves, so he could gather no clues from her hands, other than the fact that she held the key in her left hand. But, he realized, that proved nothing, as her right hand appeared to be occupied with a yellow purse. From the angle of the camera, he only got an oblique view of the rest of her body, just enough to tell him she was wearing a black parka, and beyond that, black or dark blue trousers.

Impatiently he searched back through the recorded video feed until he found a blurry image of her leaving the flat Wednesday night around 10 pm in the same outfit. And even further back, the previous morning, Wednesday, at the same time, and there she was returning again—same outfit, same purse—so likely this was her routine. She must work nights somewhere, in some menial job where they didn't ask too many questions, and her shift ended around 6 am.

Even though he had no proof, his gut (which he usually ignored) told him either this was Mary, or this woman held the key, one way or another, to the mystery of what had happened to Mary. He had to know.

As soon as he had made up his mind, a surge of adrenalin propelled him up and out of bed. While he started tossing clothes and other items he thought he would need (Handcuffs? Yes. Handkerchief? Yes. Gloves? Yes. Cocaine? Mmm. . . best not. Lockpicks? Yes, definitely.) into an overnight bag, his mind began to buzz with an ever-increasing list of boring details he needed to take care of. He would need the gun, of course. Transportation he could arrange with a call to Mycroft, along with security for John and Gracie while he was gone.

Oh, thinking of John, Sherlock suddenly realized, while slipping silently down the stairs, that he should probably let him know, if not where he was going, then at least that he would be gone for a few days. Lately John tended to worry when Sherlock disappeared unexpectedly, and when he worried he became especially bothersome.

All was quiet in 221B, John and Gracie both evidently still sleeping. If he were stealthy, he could simply leave a note and slip out. That would be the best course of action. Leave no opportunity for questions. IF he found something in Malmo (and that was a big If), then he could tell John.

He found a gas bill stub on the counter (marked "paid" in John's handwriting), flipped it over, and scrawled "Leaving town for a while." After he had set it on the table, he considered that possibly that wouldn't be enough information to satisfy John, so he added "I have my inhaler. Be back…". Hmm—no, he didn't know when he'd be back. It was Thursday now, should take thirteen-plus hours of driving each way (possibly more depending on the ferry schedule), but he had no idea what he would find when he got to Malmo. Frowning, he scratched off the last bit and wrote "I'll call you if I won't be back by Monday." There, that should make John happy. He was quite chuffed with himself for remembering to leave a note, as in times past he would have simply walked out and never even considered John's reaction until he started getting frantic texts and phone calls.

He took a cab to Molly's flat, and made the call to Mycroft on the way. His irritating brother didn't pick up until the third ring. Just like him to be having a lie-in when Sherlock needed him.

"What is it?" Mycroft said abruptly, voice muted as if he were holding his hand over the receiver. Out of breath—must be walking, not sleeping.

"I need a car," Sherlock answered.

"Sherlock, I'm in Copenhagen. Can it wait until I get back?" Mycroft said briskly.

"No, I need it now."

"Why?" Oh, that annoying lilting tone, so like their mother.

"Can't discuss that over the phone. Isn't it enough that I need it?" Sherlock demanded shortly.

Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh. "Fine. Pick it up at Diogenes in one hour."

"I will. And I need security for John and Gracie."

"Whatever for?"

"Put a man outside of Baker Street."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. He could hear Mycroft shifting around. His breathing had got louder. "This is the first time you've  _asked_  me to put surveillance on you."

"Not me; I'll be out of town," Sherlock clarified impatiently. "It's for John." He wished Mycroft would just can the questions and agree already. This conversation was becoming tiresome, and causing a needless delay in the arrival of security to Baker Street.

Another pause, and then Mycroft said in a pained voice, "I will do it for John. But we  _will_  talk on Monday when I am back in London."

"Fine. If you're over the stomach 'flu. Don't want you bringing germs around Gracie."

"It's just a touch of indigestion," Mycroft corrected him. "I'm fine. Now, I'm due in a meeting in ten minutes. If there nothing else. . .?"

"You always did have a delicate constitution," Sherlock snarked, but he realized mid sentence that he was talking to no one as Mycroft had already rung off.

* * *

It took him less than three minutes to break into Molly's flat, retrieve the gun, and leave again without her even waking up. He could text her later so she wouldn't panic when she found it gone. That would be much easier than having to discuss with her endlessly why he wanted it and what he planned to do with it and how he planned to transport it safely and "yes mother I will keep the safety on and I won't threaten anyone with it and I'll unload it yes even the bullet in the chamber" and on and on until he wanted to scream.

Sherlock's map app claimed it would take 14 hours, 46 minutes to get to Malmo via the Chunnel, which he took as a personal challenge. For at least the past two mornings, "Star/Stella" had returned home at 5:13 in the morning GMT in London, or 6:13 am CET in Malmo. Therefore it was likely she left for work and returned home at the same time each morning. He intended to be at her flat before the time she arrived home the following morning.

The entire drive his thoughts chased themselves round and round in his head like a dog chasing its tail.  _Mary was leaving John. Someone was blackmailing her. She thought John was involved in a massacre. She had started a fight with him. Mary was leaving John. She ended up in the river, but was it an accident, or homicide, or maybe. . .suicide? Or maybe it wasn't her at all? She was helping someone escape. She picked a fight with John—on purpose? Mary was leaving John. . ._

Just after he left the E20, he passed the exit to Copenhagen. Perhaps he should drop in on Mycroft, just to see the expression on his face. That would be the only reason, of course. Sherlock would never admit to himself that it rankled that Mycroft hadn't stopped by to see them, not even once since Mary died. Hadn't shown up at the memorial service. Hadn't come over to check on how John was doing. Not to see Gracie. Not even to wind Sherlock up over how ridiculously domesticated he had become. But Mycroft could do whatever he liked. Sherlock certainly didn't care.

By the time Sherlock arrived in Malmo (having missed a ferry by mere seconds and waiting an interminable amount of time—thirty endless minutes!—for the next one), he was grumpy, exhausted, and hungry. And seeing as it was only 8 in the evening, he wouldn't be able to go directly to Stella/Star's flat because he couldn't be sure she had gone out already, which only added to his growing mental list of reasons to be annoyed.

He decided to stop for some takeaway and find a hotel room for the wait, which was likely to be several hours. If he broke in sometime after midnight, he could have plenty of time to have a look around before she came back the next morning.

There was nothing more depressing than a takeaway kebab in a dodgy hotel room, so Sherlock got a falafel instead. The pita was soggy, but the amba was suitably hot, so he ate it without complaining. He barely noticed what he was eating anyway; it was just fuel for his body so his mind wouldn't stop functioning (it had happened before—most inconvenient).

John texted around 9 pm, just a quick  _Everything all right?_  So Sherlock texted back,  **Fine, working on a case**. Should satisfy him. John was used to Sherlock taking off with little notice, and as long as he checked in on a regular basis, John had learned not to worry too much. Or at least had learned not to give Sherlock too much stick about it, which was basically the same thing from Sherlock's perspective.

It was hardly worth trying to sleep for only a few hours, so he didn't. Instead he obsessively went over the details, checked and rechecked the gun, and ate up nearly seven megabytes of data on his phone doing research, trying to find what "Stella" had been up to, that netted him nothing. He could find no employment records for her, no web presence at all beside the address on Hards Vag, about three blocks from his hotel.

Just after midnight he headed out, with his coat pulled tightly around himself against the chill, and the gun tucked securely into his pocket. There were few people on the streets at this hour, with the exception of a few women, two huddled together and a third standing a few meters away just inside the entrance to a sketchy-looking alleyway. The one who had been alone stepped out of the shadows and approached him as he passed, and he tightened his fingers around the gun, until he noticed how she was dressed: low cut blouse despite the cool weather, skirt too short, skinny legs and knobby knees showing. Prostitute, obviously, but all he could think was  _isn't she cold?_

He shook his head and didn't make eye contact, so she slunk back into the alleyway, for which Sherlock was thankful. He hadn't the mental or physical energy to fend her off just now. He was saving every bit of it for his confrontation with "Stella". He already had an opening line planned: "I know what you did. I just want to know why." After that he wasn't so sure. He supposed she would break down and reveal all her secrets. That's what people usually did, right?

Feeling a bit exposed on the empty street, he detoured a couple of blocks to the east, ducked into an alleyway, and came out the other end onto Hards Vag a half-block from his destination.

Hards Vag was quiet, with everything buttoned down for the night. Darkened windows, rows of silent cars lined both sides of the street, waiting for their owners. The dodgy front door of the building didn't prove to be much challenge. After only a few seconds, it yielded to his lock picks and swung open on creaky hinges, revealing a dimly lit foyer that smelled strongly of mold and stale cigarettes, the perfume of poverty everywhere.

He skipped the aging lift and went quietly up the stairs to the fourth floor, where he knew Stella's flat to be. The lock on her front door also quickly popped open after a few seconds with the picks. He slipped inside and silently closed the door behind him, then just stood listening. No sound could be heard, except the muted noise of traffic on the street behind the building.

He did a quick tour of the flat, noting as he did so that there was almost no furniture to be found, with the exception of an uncomfortable-looking chair with sagging springs, pulled up facing the window in the sitting room. The tiny bedroom at the rear contained a stained mattress with small pile of blankets, neatly folded, and carrier bags containing a few clothes and some basic hygiene supplies. A first aid kit in a red box sat open on the bathroom counter, with the partially used contents scattered around it. Other than that the bathroom was almost completely empty. No makeup, no personal items, no photographs, no electronics. The kitchenette was likewise bare except for a canister of instant coffee, two pot noodles, and a small stack of paper bowls and plastic spoons.

After he had opened every cupboard and closet in every room, only to come up empty, he had nothing else to do, and at least five more hours to fill, by his calculations. With a sigh of exhaustion he dropped into the single chair, which let off a cloud of dust, and took up his thinking pose. In his mind he went over all of the cards again—he had left the actual cards tucked away in their hiding spot in his bedroom, but he had the details committed to memory by now.

The chair was more comfortable than he realized, especially given that he had had only had a total of less than three hours sleep over the past two nights. His chin dropped to his chest, and he jerked back upright with an effort. It seemed quite unfair that someone had attached weights to his eyelids. Maybe if he just rested them for a moment. . .

Sometime later he woke suddenly, every muscle tense. Something had awakened him, but what? He held perfectly still, waiting, until he heard it again—a tiny creak from a loose floorboard, just behind him. Someone was in the flat, and they must have known he was there by now. The gun was still in his pocket—there was no way he could get it without making an obvious move.

Another tiny creak, then he felt something touch the back of his head. Something hard and cold—the muzzle of a handgun.

"Hello, Stella," he said calmly, although his heart was pounding. There was no reply, but the gun was removed from his head. Taking it as an invitation, he turned. Would he see a familiar face, with the nose just wrong, eyes green instead of blue. . . ?

"Or should I say. . .", he started as he finished the turn and saw her face for the first time. The nose  _wasn't_  wrong; it was  _right_. A pair of stormy blue eyes stared steadily into his, over the black barrel of the gun.

". . . Mary," he breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for cheating, but aren't you glad she's alive? Now go ahead and write me a comment telling me you knew it all along. :-)


	19. Shock, take 3

"Not dead then?" Sherlock was trying for a light tone, but it was somewhat spoiled when his voice cracked on the last word. He had known, or should have known, he now realized, that the dead woman in the morgue wasn't her, had never been her. He felt as if his head had been underwater for the past three months, and suddenly he had broken through to the surface, only to find someone had turned the world upside down in his absence.

Mary blinked at him. Her breathing was harsh but steady, and the barrel of the gun didn't waver. "Why are you here, Sherlock?" she said finally.

Sherlock didn't answer that. "You won't shoot me, Mary," he said confidently. This was Mary. Not-dead Mary. Gracie had a mother. A not-dead mother. Lovely.

"I did before."

"Not a kill shot."

Mary's breath came out in a huff—not a laugh; the sound had a sharp, impatient edge to it. "Go back to London and take care of my husband and daughter," she snapped.

"Why don't  _you_  do that?"

She gave a tiny, frustrated shake of her head. "I can't."

"Why not?"

Again the small shake of her head, lips pressed together. The gun, which his distracted brain notified him was a Glock G42, moved a centimetre closer to Sherlock's forehead. Possibly not good, but Mary wouldn't shoot him in the head (Would she?).

"You didn't kill Star, Mary," he ventured. "You were trying to help her, but they killed her before you could get her out. It's not your fault."

Mary's throat jumped in a hard swallow. "She was my friend," she said bitterly. "I couldn't stay there anymore _._ He wanted me back, and he wouldn't quit. He wouldn't ever quit as long as I was alive. If I hadn't left, John would have been next.I needed to go."

"Why didn't you ask for my help? I would have helped you."

"I didn't deserve any help. It was better that I left."

"John and Gracie need you."

"No, they don't. They have you. They're safer without me."

"John wouldn't agree with that."

"He doesn't want me."

"Mary, that's  _not true_ ," Sherlock's voice had fallen to a harsh whisper. "You broke John."

"I guess I learned it from you," Mary's tone was hard, sarcastic. "He was already broken when I found him, and it was all because of you."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to blink. John was broken when Sherlock left? No, he wasn't! John got on with his life. It wasn't the same at all.

"No, he wasn't. He—"

"You weren't there, were you?"

"I was there this time. I took care of them, after you—" Sherlock broke off. Pressure had appeared behind his eyes, tears attempting to force their way out. "You didn't have to leave." Oh, he hated how his voice was betraying him: plaintive, like a wounded child.

"They're better off without me," Mary repeated stubbornly.

"John wouldn't say that."

"John doesn't know. He destroyed the thumb drive I gave him. He doesn't know what I've done. If he knew, he wouldn't want me."

"So you've made that decision without him."

Mary cocked her head to the side, regarding him with a curious expression. "But you know, don't you? If you're here, that means you've found my thumb drive, and my notebook. You must know what it all means."

The notebook, the list of numbers and initials—they were kills, of course. Some of them hers, some of the rest of her team, but all murders she participated in over the past years. But they were in the  _past_. They didn't count, at least as far as Sherlock was concerned.

He hesitated too long in answering. In the silence, Mary's eyes grew shiny and filled up with tears, which she wiped away impatiently with one hand. But in her other hand, the gun never wavered.

"There's no going back from what I've done."

"You don't know what I've done either," Sherlock choked out. Amsterdam. New Delhi. Serbia. Images flitted through his mind unbidden. Events only he knew the truth about, as all other witnesses were dead. "We're not so different. Maybe that's why John loves us both."

Mary just shook her head, breathing loudly through her nose. "You shouldn't have come here, Sherlock," she said in a stony voice, each word a pebble flung into his face.

Sherlock licked his lips, eyes flicking to the barrel of the gun and then back to her face again. "John and Gracie need you," he repeated. " _I_ need you. Please."

No response, only Mary's harsh breathing filled the gloomy flat.

"Come home, Mary."

"Don't. . . Don't call me that."

"Mary, come home."

"I can't."

"Come home, Mary."

Mary's jaw set, her mouth pressed into a hard line. Something in her eyes gave Sherlock pause, made him think for the first time that perhaps he had miscalculated. Behind the tough veneer, he caught a hint of desperation, and a desperate person was unpredictable.

Keeping the eye contact as best as he was able, he moved his hand slightly toward his pocket, but stopped when Mary's eyes slid downward to track the movement. Her gaze kept going, following the direction his hand had moved, and stopped at his coat pocket where the lump from the gun was, he now realized, quite obvious to the trained eye.

Mary's breathing evened out. The desperation was replaced by something even more terrifying: determination. Her right hand came up to support her left around the gun, which was aimed directly at the centre of his forehead. Her finger eased its way from the trigger guard onto the trigger. She was prepared to shoot, and she was clearly going for the kill shot this time.

Sherlock closed his eyes and waited. He still had his eyes closed three seconds later when suddenly his jaw exploded in pain and everything went black.

He came to only a few seconds later, quickly enough to hear the door click shut behind Mary, but he was in no condition to get up from the hard floor where he had fallen. As he lay curled up next to the chair, he reached up with a shaky hand and ran his fingers along his jaw. Just below his ear he felt a squishy lump, tender to the touch. Gentle pressure caused a new burst of pain that radiated up and out to wrap around his entire head and neck. Bile, and the sour taste of partially digested falafel, rose in his throat, but he swallowed it back down. Must get up, must follow her, must. . . Oh, must lie here a few more moments.

It took almost ten minutes before he was able to push himself to wobbly feet without losing his dinner, by which time Mary was long gone. So what to do now? She wouldn't come back here, even though she had left all of her things behind. He had no idea where else she might go in Malmo, as she had no car (or did she?). His only option, as far as he saw it, was to go back to his hotel, regroup, and attempt to track her movements on CCTV.

Right, which direction was the front door again? Ah, yes, to the left. No, closet. To the right, then. Indeed.

The first light of morning greeted him as he stepped out of the front door. The sky was a bleak, steel-grey, clouds laden with rain that had yet to fall. He pulled his coat around himself more tightly to ward off the chill, grunting in pain as the collar pressed against his bruised jaw. He flipped the collar down with a wince. He would have to ask Mary to teach him that trick. Mary! Mary was alive! Despite the pain, he couldn't help the little smile that tugged at his lips.

As he approached his hotel, the same prostitute stepped out of the shadows of the dingy alleyway. Her two companions had gone home (or perhaps got dates for the night?), but here she still was, even though the sky was nearly full light now. He glanced up and down, noting her surprisingly sensible trainers (perhaps not so surprising, given she had been on her feet all night long), and turned back to his thoughts. If he ignored her, she would go away.

But she didn't go away, much to his annoyance. Instead she took a few swaying steps toward him. "Hey, handsome," she slurred in heavily accented English. "Wanna have a good time? Discount for you." He could see in the streetlight that she wore far too much make-up. Most of her hair was pulled back into a gaudy gold clip, and her fringe, having frizzed from the drizzle, now stood up like a poodle's puff on top of her head.

He tried shaking his head to fend her off again, but she was not so easily deterred this time. She stepped in closer and laid a hand on his arm and he pulled back in distaste. "Don't touch me," he sneered, lip curled, but she leaned in closer, so close that she went cross-eyed, blowing fetid breath in his face.

"Have good time. Long time," she suggested again with a leer.

"No thank you," he insisted, prying her bony yellowed fingers away from his arm. As soon as he was free, he slipped around her and kept going toward the building, and fortunately she didn't follow. Good, he thought. Now back to the problem of Mary. He intended to track her on security cameras, which shouldn't be too difficult. He knew the approximate time she would have left the building. The footage from her building's front door camera should give him the direction she had headed.

As he shucked off his coat, he suddenly caught a whiff of a familiar smell: JPS White cigarettes, his favourite brand, and his breath caught in a nearly forgotten pang of longing. Oh, God, he would kill for a smoke right now!

Where had the smell come from? How had it got onto his coat? From Mary's flat? No, she didn't smoke, and he hadn't smelled it there. Ah, that prostitute—the smell must have been on her hands and transferred to his sleeve when she touched him. He would have to have it cleaned when he got back to London. It wouldn't do for him to nearly have a relapse every time he smelled the coat. He had had it cleaned the day after he had given away his last pack, just to be rid of the constant reminder of what he was missing.

Suddenly, a picture came to his mind, of himself tossing the pack of JPS whites to the homeless woman camped out in front of his building, and her cross-eyed look of thanks.

Cross-eyed, like the prostitute outside. . .

SHIT! That was her! That was the same woman who had been sitting out front of Baker Street off and on for weeks, at least since Mary's memorial service. She must be one of Mary's old associates, hanging around to see if she came back, and now he had led her here, straight to Mary's door. Stupid! Idiot! he castigated himself. Well, as he was responsible for her being here, it was his responsibility to stop her.

Setting his coat and jacket aside, he pulled a small bottle of cheap gin from the mini-fridge, opened the screw-off cap, and splashed it on his face and neck, wincing at the resultant stench. He considered messing up his hair, but a quick glance in the bathroom mirror told him that was unnecessary. A night of little sleep followed by a kip in an uncomfortable chair had already done the trick. On his way out the door he tucked the handcuffs into his trouser pocket.

He found the woman still lurking in the alley, a lit cigarette clenched between her nicotine stained fingers. When she saw him walking toward her, she dropped the cigarette and crushed it under the toe of her sensible trainers. Her face morphed into a lascivious smile. "Hello, darling," she drawled. "You change you mind, handsome?"

"You talked me into it," he responded with his most charming grin. "Shall we?" He offered his arm, and she slipped hers through it, her chipped nails digging into the inside of his bicep.

As soon as they entered his hotel room, she stepped in front of him, one hand on his chest and the other sliding around his waist. "What you like, baby?" she purred. The hand on his chest stroked downward toward his belt, he was sure in an attempt to distract him from her other hand, which he could feel held something hard, probably a hypodermic needle.

But he was ready for her. With a quick twist, he caught her arm and bent it behind her back, using his weight to drive her forward onto the bed. He grabbed the needle from her hand and tossed it aside. After a brief scuffle, he managed to get her cuffed to the bedpost and stepped back, breathing harder than he should have been at the amount of exertion.

"So," he began, then stopped to catch his breath. She said nothing, just watched him with an almost amused expression on her face. "So, you're not a prostitute. Obviously."

"What gave me away?" she asked. Her thick Swedish accent had disappeared entirely and she now spoke in RP with a hint of Estuary in the vowels. East Anglia, perhaps?

"I remember you, from Baker Street. I saw you outside my flat. You should get that lazy eye fixed." He retrieved the syringe and inspected it in the dim light. Yellowish liquid. Some sort of sedative, most likely. Chloral hydrate came to mind. At that dosage, a man his size would be nicely sleepy and compliant. A woman her size, on the other hand, would probably be dead, or at least dead asleep.

"What were you doing in London?" he asked conversationally on his way to the bathroom where he emptied the syringe into the sink.

"Trying to track down your flatmate's wayward wife," she called after him. "I'm MI-6."

Sherlock dropped the now-empty syringe onto the desk and narrowed his eyes at her. "Prove it."

"Well, I haven't got ID. That would defeat the purpose of being undercover, wouldn't it? I was trying to bring Annika Albinsson to justice."

"That's not true," Sherlock sneered. "My brother would have told me."

She snorted. "Your brother knows better than to tell state secrets. He knows all about it. We think Annika married John Watson to get to him. That's why Mycroft's been keeping his distance lately."

"She didn't marry John to get to anyone. I wasn't even around."

"We think she knew you weren't dead. She was just biding her time. Why do you think she encouraged your relationship with Dr Watson?"

"They've got a  _baby_!"

"The baby was an accident. We think Annika had been looking for an opportunity to ditch Watson and go back to her former life."

"Not true," Sherlock protested.

"We've been after her for years. Stella was working for us. She had finally figured out where she was and was reeling her in, but then Annika killed her and used her body to fake her own death."

"You're lying. I know you're lying. Mary had left all that behind."

"I thought you'd be on my side," the woman said, brows furrowed. "She shot you too."

"She spared my life."

"No, she was just out of practice. Look, she's a murderer, you know that. She killed Basil Al-Assad, who was heir-apparent to power in Syria. The entire crisis there could have been avoided."

Basil Al-Assad? His mind supplied him with the details from the news article. "That was a car accident!"

"She tampered with the brakes!" the woman responded earnestly. "And that's not the only time. Brake lines and other undetectable methods were her specialty."

Sherlock rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. Could she be telling the truth? Of course not, why would he even entertain the notion? This woman and her lies were distracting him from the task he had intended to accomplish here—finding Mary through the CCTV. Right, must get on that without further delay. The sooner he found Mary the sooner he could get to the bottom of what was really going on here.

"Mr Holmes, if you'll just release me, I can prove it to you," the annoying woman wheedled. "I can show you the news reports from her latest jobs."

Sherlock just flipped his hand at her dismissively and turned his attention to the job at hand. With his laptop open on the rickety desk, he quickly bypassed the safeguards, dodgy wi-fi be damned, and hacked into the security cameras surrounding Mary's flat. Scrolling back through the footage, he caught her leaving the building with her red beanie pulled down low over her ears. When she moved out of sight, he switched to the next camera he had located, half a block on, and found her again, then again, always following that distinctive hat. He sped the playback up to double-time and scrolled through quickly. He wanted to know where she was  _now_ , not an hour ago, dammit!

The woman handcuffed to his bed was talking again, but Sherlock paid her no mind. Around the corner now, new camera, scroll scroll scroll, new camera, left turn, new camera, window shopping(!), scroll scroll scroll. How tedious.

Six blocks later, the figure in the red hat sat down on a bench in Pildammsparken facing the water. Sherlock checked the timestamp. Five minutes ago! Bingo! Immediately he started pulling on his jacket while his mind worked out the details. If he left now and took the car, he could quite possibly catch her before she left the park.

"Wait, where are you off to?" the woman called after him as he took off out the door, but he didn't answer. She wasn't going anywhere, and he had already decided he didn't believe anything she said anyway, so why bother talking to her? Mary was the important one now. He just had to find Mary and everything would be all right.

 


	20. Denial, take 4

The woman in the red hat was still sitting on the bench when he arrived at the park, but once he caught a glimpse of her face, he realized it wasn't Mary, but instead a different woman, shabbily dressed and filthy-faced, of similar build. The black coat and red hat, however, were identical to the ones Mary had been wearing. She must have passed them off to this woman at some point when she was out of camera range, which meant that Mary herself was long gone and he had no way of tracking her.

Biting back his disappointment, he headed back to his motel, determined to drag some information out of the "MI-6 agent" he had locked up there. Oh, god, he hoped she was still there and hadn't slipped out of the cuffs while he was off on his fool's errand.

He counted himself quite fortunate when he returned to the room, to find her still in the same position he had left her, make-up a bit smeary but otherwise none the worse for wear.

"There you are, thank god," she said breathlessly. "I'm desperate for a wee."

"You can hold it while you answer a few questions." The room was stuffy, so he pulled off his coat and tossed it over the back of the wobbly wooden desk chair.

The woman's face screwed up into a kind of warped grin. "You didn't find her, did you? Of course you didn't. Annika is too clever by half."

"Oh? Why don't you tell me where you think she is?"

The grin had turned into an agonized grimace. "I'd love to, but please, let me go to the toilet." Her hips twisted, legs crossed antsily. "Do you want me to wet your bed? Because I'm about to."

Sherlock scoffed at her obvious discomfort. "Just tell me where she went and I'll let you go to the toilet."

"She's off to Copenhagen to kill your brother, you idiot! Now you've flushed her out, she's got to step up the schedule," the woman cried in a desperate voice. "Now  _please_!"

He wasn't sure if he believed that, but it certainly seemed that she believed it, which was enough to convince him that perhaps he ought to make a call to Mycroft, just to warn him to keep a sharp eye out.

As he took the phone from his pocket, the woman cried out sharply. "Oy! The toilet! Come on, you promised!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine, all right!" He dropped the phone onto the desk without pressing send and crossed to the woman, pulling the handcuff key and gun from his pockets as he went. The woman leaned forward so he could unlock the cuffs, which he did one-handed, keeping the gun trained on her as he inserted the key into the lock.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she groveled while pulling one wrist free. The damned handcuffs were caught on the bedpost, so he had to remove the key from one side in order to unlock the other. Of course the key stuck in the lock, which took two hands to free. He brought his other hand around, still holding the gun, which was a bit awkward but that couldn't be helped.

Just as the cuff clicked open, he felt the woman suddenly twist to the side, and then a sharp pain shot through his already injured jaw. What the hell? He tried to turn his head, just as her arm whipped around, grabbed his left wrist and locked a cuff on it. When he tried to pull back, distracted by the pain, she caught his right hand and twisted outward, little finger pulled upward while her thumb drove into the back of his hand. In a split second, he lost his grip on the gun amid a spike of blinding agony. Bile rose in his throat.

A second later, he found both wrists locked securely into his own cuffs around the bedpost, and the woman standing back, just out of kicking range, with the keys dangling from her fingertips, a sly smile on her face. Her other hand held his gun, pointed at the floor.

"I'm sorry, darling," she cooed. "Might have broken your finger there. Not my intention, I assure you."

He just gaped at her, breathing hard through the haze of pain that stained his vision red.

"I'm really am a friend, you know. We could have worked together."

"You want her dead," he said hoarsely. "I won't go along with that."

"I want to prevent her from killing again, Mr Holmes, and so should you."

Sherlock squinted at her. "If you want to prevent another death, then why aren't you on the phone warning my brother she's out to kill him?"

The woman blinked. "He already knows."

That was a lie and he knew it. "You said she had stepped up the schedule. That means he won't be expecting it. So why don't you call him and warn him?"

"There's no need—"

"I'll tell you why you haven't called him—because it's not Mary he should be worried about.  _You_  are the assassin who is after him, or one of your team, and Mary is trying to stop you."

"Really?" she smirked. The gun barrel came up to aim at his head.

"My only question is, are you DMR or AGA?"

The gun wavered and the smirk faltered. "What?"

"I'm thinking DMR. SPG was Stella, and NRA must be Mary, because she was called Niki."

"Where did you get this information?" she asked in a sharp voice.

"Mary's notebook. She kept records, of course. Or didn't you know that? Wrote all of her little impressions of her teammates. Do you want to know what she said about you?"

The woman made a little noise of protest, so Sherlock ploughed on, making the story up on the spot based on the few details listed in the notebook. "Called you a 'manky bint, a real munter.' Also implied you were a bit thick, if I recall correctly."

"You arsehole, you're lying!" She took a step toward him, wild-eyed. Just one more step and she would be in kicking range.

"Sure about that?" Sherlock said. "She said she was always having to clean up your messes. I think Paris was one example."

The woman's face contorted in fury. Ah, now he had her! But instead of taking the next step into kicking range, she suddenly leapt on top of his legs, knobby knees first, and backhanded him hard across the cheek, snapping his head around to the side. Wincing, he twisted and tried to get out from under her, but stopped when he felt the muzzle of the gun pressed against his temple. Her other hand grabbed his chin and held him still. Sherlock felt his chest tighten and his throat filled with mucous that clogged the airways. Breathe evenly, he commanded himself. No time for weakness.

"Paris was her fault! HERS! I cleaned up HER mess!" She sat back, breathing sharply through her nose. The muzzle of the gun slid down the side of Sherlock's face to his bruised jaw, metal digging into the skin. "But you're lying to me, aren't you? I should have killed you when I had the chance. HE wanted me to, you and that rabbity little husband of hers, but she tried to get him to leave you both alone. She went  _soft_." The last bit was hissed, with a derisive sneer.

Sherlock tried to gather his thoughts to put together a response, but his mind had gone sluggish, with all of his attention diverted toward simply drawing in oxygen. His face itched but of course he couldn't scratch with his hands cuffed behind his back. It was torture.

The gun slid lower still, down the front of his neck to the top button of his shirt. "I'll offer you a deal," she said in a conspiratorial tone. "You help me find her, and I'll let you and John both live."

"Absolutely not," Sherlock spat back. "You can't possibly think I'd. . .(gasp for air like a bloody fish). . . trust you." He tried to twist his hips to throw her off his lap, but she kept her position with a fist curled into his jacket lapel.

"Pity. I wouldn't mind having you on my team." One-handed, she pulled a pack of cigarettes (JPS White! Damn her!) from inside her bra, shook one out and placed it between her lips, where it quivered slightly. The pack was returned to her bra and replaced with a slim gold lighter, which she snapped open and used to light the cigarette. Her eyes never left Sherlock's face and the gun was still digging into the hollow of his neck, her finger resting lightly on the trigger.

After the first drag on the cigarette, she blew the smoke into his face with a little smile. "This is your brand, isn't it?"

His only response was a spate of weak coughs. His mouth filled up with water. Even though his body protested violently, he couldn't help but lean in and inhale as deeply as he could. Stupid transport. He had thought he was over it, had kicked the habit, but the desire came back instantly as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

Her smile widened. "Do you want this? Well, do you?"

He couldn't respond because he was too busy coughing uncontrollably. Not now! His vision was starting to go sparkly around the edges from lack of oxygen. He felt her hand slide down his neck and open the top button of his shirt.

"We could have some fun, you know," she slurred, voice muffled from the cigarette still hanging between her lips. Her fingers popped open the second button of his shirt, nails scratching against his clammy skin.

"Mmpf. . . no. . . can't. . ." was all he could manage to get out before he was hit with another coughing fit. A second later she pulled back with her lip curled.

"Disgusting, you're all sweaty," she said, wiping her hand on his shirtsleeve.

"Inhaler," he gasped. "Need my inhaler."

Her look of disgust turned upward into amusement. "You want your inhaler?"

"Yes," he choked out, nodding. "Please. . ."

"Well, you can have it if you tell me where she was staying."

He clamped his lips together to stave off another coughing fit while he shook his head. Furiously, she leaned in and grabbed his chin, face inches from his. "Tell me!"

In response, he turned his head and coughed directly into her face, which caused her to pull back in alarm, eyes wide. Her hand flew up to wipe the droplets of spittle from her cheek. "You wanker!" she cried. She pushed herself backward off his lap, stubbed out her cigarette on the scarred desktop, and grabbed up his wadded sock from where he had discarded it on the floor the night before. Muttering to herself, she dug around in his overnight bag until she came up with a handkerchief.

"Now then, if you can't behave, you'll have to be gagged."

"Can't. . . talk to you if. . . I'm gagged." He managed to keep his body still, while behind his back he was frantically tugging at the cuff, which was nearly loose enough to slip over his hand, if he could just get his thumb tucked in a bit further. . .

"You're not going to tell me what I want to know anyway. So I might as well have some fun before I kill you."

He tried to kick at her when she got within range, but she easily fended off the clumsy blows. Straddling his lap again, she pressed the gun against his jaw. "Open your mouth."

"Mm-mm", he refused, lips tightly closed. It was even harder to breathe through his nose. If he didn't get that inhaler soon, she wouldn't have to kill him. His own traitorous lungs would do the job themselves.

Her fist drove into his solar plexus. He grunted but managed to keep his mouth closed. "Open!"

"Mm-mm!" Twisting his thumb around to the side didn't make his hand small enough to slip through. He couldn't quite get his finger from the other hand into the narrow space to provide some leverage. Another fist to the stomach drove all of the remaining air out his lungs, and he couldn't help but open his mouth in a desperate gasp.

At that moment, the door to the room suddenly flew open and a petite figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, with the light from hallway surrounding her head like a halo. Squinting into the light, Sherlock thought fuzzily that this was either Mary come (he hoped) to save him, or the angel of death. He wasn't sure which one he would prefer at that moment.

There was a flurry of movement from the woman on his lap, and then she was kneeling half-behind him, one arm around his neck to hold him still, her other hand pushing the gun against his temple.

"Well, hello, Annika," the woman drawled. "You've put on weight, I see."

"Let him go."

"Tell you what, I'll trade your life for his."

Sherlock wanted to warn Mary that she shouldn't take that deal, if only he could talk, but she had apparently already come to that conclusion.

"Let him go or I'll shoot you both."

Not exactly the solution he would have chosen, but it definitely seemed like something Mary would do. If she aimed in just the right spot, she could get a kill shot on the woman without causing him too much damage, as long as he got medical help right away.

"You wouldn't kill him. Your precious  _John_  would never forgive you."

Sherlock couldn't make out Mary's response, because the woman's arm had tightened around his neck, cutting off what little oxygen was still getting in. His field of vision narrowed to a small circle, mostly filled with the grotty bedspread and the wadded up sock that the woman had dropped when Mary had entered. Black and gold spots danced in the periphery of his vision.

Their conversation faded in and out. All he could make out was "Blah blah blah vatican cameos blah blah."

Slowly the words sifted through his addled brain. Wait, what was that? Was he meant to do something? Suddenly it clicked—MOVE!

He flung himself to the side and down, ducking his head just as the roar of the gun firing echoed in his ears. One shot? Or two?

A streak of fiery pain creased his temple and the black spots in his vision turned to red. He could feel the blood running down his face. He had definitely been hit, but must not have been a direct shot because he was still breathing, after a fashion. A weight had fallen across his back and neck, nearly smothering him.

"Sherlock!" Mary cried, then he felt her fingers, cool and shaky, at his throat, feeling for his pulse. "Oh, God, I'm sorry! Why didn't you move sooner?"

He couldn't quite get enough of a breath to reply. Even when Mary's hands pushed the weight of the woman's body up and off of his back, he still felt like he was being smothered. With enormous effort he dragged a shallow gasp of a breath into his clogged lungs. So this was what drowning felt like. He had expected it to be more peaceful.

A corner of a towel appeared in his field of vision, streaked with red from blood, possibly his. Mary's hands were gentle on his face, but the pressure against his wound still stung like fire.

"It's not too bad, just grazed you." Mary's voice sounded like it was coming from a mile away. He couldn't quite get his eyes to focus on her face. Too many black and gold sparkles blocking his vision.

"Sherlock?" The voice had taken on a worried note. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Could he? Not quite sure about that. Maybe she was the angel of death after all. His head lolled to the side as he tried to get her face to come into view. When he finally caught a glimpse of it, he could make out that her eyebrows were pulled together in concern.

"Sherlock! Have you taken something?"

Taken something? No, not—not taken something. He needed something. What was it? What did he need to be able to breathe again? ". . . 'haler," he managed to choke out.

"What do you mean? Did you take drugs?"

Inhaler, he thought desperately, but he couldn't get the words to come out of his mouth.

"Where's the list, Sherlock?" She pushed him forward until he was nearly bent in half at the waist while she fumbled with the handcuffs. Finally, with a click the cuffs opened and he fell forward, collapsing onto the bed in a heap face first. With one eye, though a haze of blood, he watched her fussing around until she finally pulled on his shoulder to half flip him over.

"The list!" she demanded again, shaking him by the shoulder.

All he could do was shake his head helplessly.  _No list. No drugs. Gonna die. Please. . ._

"Really? Because the last time you looked like this, you nearly died from an OD. Now where's the list?!" she demanded. Despite her angry words, her touch, though still clinical, was soft as she pushed his fringe back from his sweaty forehead.

He found he hadn't the mental or physical energy to correct her erroneous assumption. Oh, what did it matter what she thought she was looking for, as long as she looked in the right place? "Coat. . ." he mumbled, followed by another string of weak coughs.

"Ah, so there is a list!" she crowed. No need to act so smug about it, he thought fuzzily. Just go on and find the inhaler already.

The bed squeaked as she jumped up and headed for his coat, which still lay across the wooden chair. He watched her search the right pocket and come up with a dummy. Then the left pocket, where she paused a second before pulling out the inhaler. For an agonizing few seconds, her eyes went from the inhaler to his sweaty, gasping face and then back again.

Finally, after what felt like ages, she cried "OH!" and then she was back at the bed holding it to his mouth while apologizing over and over. He was too busy concentrating on huffing in the medicine to respond. The taste didn't even bother him anymore. At least it meant something was getting into his airway. After two puffs, she started to pull it away, but he grabbed her wrist and held it in place. Lungs were starting to open, but he wasn't quite there yet. Two more puffs, and then he finally pushed her hand away and lay back on the bed with his eyes closed, breathing deeply. Much better. His vision was starting to clear and his face no longer itched. Of course, now that the crisis had passed, the throbbing pain from his broken finger presented itself for consideration. Oh yes, that. Ouch.

He finally opened his eyes to discover that Mary was watching him with an air of alarmed consternation, lower lip between her teeth, inhaler still held at the ready. "I'm not going to die," he told her.

"Good," she said with a tiny smile—oh, that was nice to see. "Because John would never forgive me for that."

 


	21. Pain and Joy

At Mary's insistence, Sherlock lay back on the bed with a flannel pressed to his forehead, carefully avoiding the puddle of blood and dead body, while she quickly and efficiently buzzed around removing every trace of their presence in the dodgy hotel room. Sherlock watched her with an irrepressible grin, despite the circumstances. This was Mary just being Mary, and it was a sight for sore eyes, to be sure.

"Good job you chose this hotel," she said while she wiped down the desk and chair. "No security cameras."

"Not an accident," he said lazily.

"Of course not," she said as she moved to the bathroom, picking up discarded socks and wiping down surfaces on her way. It took her only a couple of minutes to complete her work in there, then she stood next to the bed with her hands on her hips, his overnight bag over her shoulder.

"Can you get up? We need to move. Police are notoriously slow to respond in this neighborhood, but they eventually do arrive when gunfire is reported."

"Yes, I can get up," Sherlock said confidently, but as soon as he attempted to stand he considered that perhaps he had been a bit hasty. His knees threatened to buckle until he felt Mary's arm slide around his waist.

"Come on," she urged him briskly. "One foot in front of the other."

Sherlock wrapped his arm around her shoulders and let her help him out to his car, which she easily identified even though he had never described it or told her where to find it.

"Where are we going?" he asked, leaning his head against the passenger seat heardrest and closing his eyes.

"My place," she responded firmly. He felt Mary lean over him for a second, and then the seat tilted back with a controlled movement. She must have her hand against the back of the seat. So like a nurse. Yes, much better. So sleepy. May as well have a kip.

While he settled in, she put the car into gear and pulled smoothly into traffic. "You need medical care. I'll patch you up and we can decide what to do next."

Four flights of stairs later (wheeze wheeze puff puff), Mary didn't lose any time when they got to her flat. "Lie down," she ordered him, pointing at the mattress, and Sherlock found himself obeying without a second thought. Yes, lying down was an excellent idea, despite the dubious cleanliness of the mattress in question.

With sure and nimble fingers, she bandaged the bullet crease at his temple, then removed his shirt and gently probed the various bruises and scrapes. "No internal bleeding," she said matter-of-factly as she pulled a fresh t-shirt over his head and reached in to protect his injured hand while she pulled it through the sleeve. "Deirdre was good at that. She always got off on pain, but she knew exactly how far to go."

Deirdre, so that was her name, Sherlock thought fuzzily. DMR. That triggered a thought in his addled brain. "Mycroft," he said urgently, pushing her hands away and straightening the hem of the t-shirt himself.

"Hmm?"

"Mycroft's in Copenhagen."

"Yes, I know."

"He's the target, at least. . . that's what Dierdre told me." Sherlock frowned. It occurred to him now that she might not be the most reliable source of information. "We need to call Mycroft and warn him."

"Already taken care of."

"What do you mean?"

"Where do you think I was night before last? They already tried and I stopped them. Attempted poisoning. I managed to interrupt her before she could finish the job."

Poisoning? That explained Mycroft's indigestion then. "Oh." Sherlock sank back down onto the thin mattress and let her take his hand to examine his finger. "That's. . . good. Not that I particularly care for Mycroft, but I suppose I don't want him to be murdered."

"Mm-hmm," Mary responded with a knowing glance. "Then I'm sure you won't be bothered to learn that was the second attempt I foiled." She took a bandage from the first aid kit and began to improvise a splint for his finger.

Second attempt? Ah, of course. "His broken arm. That wasn't a car backfire after all."

"Exactly. I didn't have a clear shot at the assassin, so I fired my gun just before he could take his shot. The security guard tackled Mycroft and the shooter missed. Then I shot the assassin—Karl—as he was sneaking out the back of the building. I didn't lose any sleep over that one."

"Karl? With a 'K'? I didn't see that one in your book."

"No, Abbi took him on after I got out. A rather poor replacement, I should think. There, all done," she said as she fixed the end of the bandage with a clip. "Try not to move it too much. We can have it set once we get somewhere safer."

"I need my right hand," he grumbled. "My left is nearly useless. Why couldn't she have broken that one instead?"

"Yes, well, it will be difficult to play the violin if your finger doesn't heal properly, so keep it still." She started repacking the first aid supplies into the battered kit.

"How did you get to Copenhagen?"

"Oh, I, erm—"

"Yes?"

"I borrowed a motorcycle."

"Stole, you mean?"

"Well, the owner didn't know I'd taken it, but I did return it," Mary protested mildly while packing away the first aid kit into her yellow purse. "Even filled the tyres and topped off the petrol."

As he watched her work, something she had said suddenly struck him. "Abbi?" he asked, struggling to sit up. "Abbi your brother?"

"Oh, um. . . yes, actually. How on earth did you deduce that?"

"The photograph."

She paused in her work long enough to give him a questioning glance. "Photograph?"

"Yes, of you and your brother. It said Abbi och Niki."

"Ah, yes. That photograph. I forgot I had put it in that box." Mary set the purse aside and started around the flat with a carrier bag over her arm, gathering up her meager belongings.

"You looked just like Gracie. I thought Abbi was your name at first. Your brother was in your little murdering club as well then?"

"He was my handler. He got me into this mess. It took me years to get out from under his thumb. And then when I thought I was free, he dug up dirt on John to get me back. When Stella tried to get out, he murdered her. I knew I had to leave or either I or John would have been next. I've been tracking him since I. . ." Her eyes dropped. "Well, since I got here. Spotted him twice but couldn't get close enough for a hit. This is his home base."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her thoughtfully. Blonde hair, short build—if the mystery man was her brother, then maybe. . ."Does he look a bit like John?"

Mary frowned. "No, not really."

"Not the face, the build. Height, weight, coloring?"

"Mmm, I suppose, yes." Mary said with a shrug. "Why do you ask?"

"I saw him," Sherlock said abruptly.

"What?! When?"

"The 30th of August."

"Oh God! He was here! He was here. He had left London behind. Oh God." She began to clean up more quickly, tossing items indiscriminately into the carrier bags.

"John and Gracie are in danger. He may go after John to flush you out, if he guesses you're alive." Sherlock said while foundering his way to the end of the mattress to pick up his bloodstained shirt and jacket.

"Yes, that's why we need to hurry."

"I could ring Lestrade—" Sherlock finished shoving his arms through the sleeves of the jacket and reached around with his left hand to dig awkwardly in the right pocket for his phone.

Mary shook her head. "It's not safe. They're likely monitoring your phone, if they tracked you here."

"What if I phone John to check in? That would be typical for me."

"You typically check in?" Mary asked with a sardonic edge to her voice.

Sherlock's mouth tightened. "I do now."

The sarcastic glint disappeared from Mary's gaze. After a second, she dropped the eye contact and busied herself with packing. Sherlock hesitated, with his hand on his phone, when he saw the shadow of pain that crossed her face.

"Yes, well, that would be a good idea," Mary said finally without looking up. Yes. Contact John. Act like everything is fine. Don't tell him his dead wife is actually alive and that he and his baby are in mortal danger.

John answered on the second ring, with a cheerful "Ah, Sherlock, how goes the subterfuge?"

Sherlock pulled the phone back and blinked at it. "Pardon?"

"You left me a cryptic note with no clear indication of where you were going or why. The only case you've got on is local, so therefore you've no legitimate reason to leave town. Lestrade is wondering when you're coming back in to wrap that one up, by the way."

"I sent him a text!"

"Yes, and they picked up the husband at the port, just as you apparently said, not that you told me any of it."

"So they don't need me!" Sherlock cried impatiently. Mary had stopped packing and was watching him with her eyebrows raised. Right, back to the point. "Erm, right. So I'm just checking in then. Everything. . . all right?"

"Yes, fine, except Gracie's teething again and she's chewed up one of your slippers."

"Good for her. Strong jaw on that one, just as I suspected. She's always been above average. Anything else?"

"No, why?"

"Oh, no reason. Just. . . just take care of yourself. I'll be home once I finish up the little matter of the Vatican cameos."

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment. Sherlock could almost hear the wheels turning in John's head. Then finally he said. "Right. Take care of yourself as well."

Sherlock rang off and then sat staring at his phone thinking. Had John got his message or not? Previously, before Gracie (or, as he thought of it, BG), he wouldn't have given it a second thought. Sherlock didn't waste his time worrying about John's well-being, because John could take care of himself, as he had proved over and over. Now, however, there was Gracie to think about. Sweet, clever Gracie, with the strawberry curls, and bright, inquisitive eyes. . . maybe he should ring Lestrade and have the inspector look in on them.

Just as his thumb hovered over the button to dial the number, Mary called out sharply from across the room, "Don't phone Lestrade." She disappeared into the small bathroom without even looking at him.

Damn, the woman had to be clairvoyant. There was no other explanation for it. "I wasn't planning to," he lied and slipped the phone back into his left pocket. Perhaps he could text Lestrade later? But Mary would probably know about that as well, somehow.

He finished buttoning up his jacket (a bit tricky with only one and a half hands, but he managed), just as Mary came back from the bathroom with her arms loaded with carrier bags.

"Right, I'll just pop a load into the boot and come back for you," she said briskly, scooping up even more bags from the pile beside the front door, until she was so loaded down that Sherlock wondered if she could even see where she was going.

"I don't need any help," Sherlock assured her. He picked up his coat (when had it got so heavy?) and struggled to push his arms through the stiff sleeves. Mary raised a skeptical eyebrow over the pile of bags. He paused in the battle with the coat to scowl at her, but she just hummed and kept going. Well, she could think what she liked, but Sherlock was  _not_  helpless. He could bloody well take care of himself, couldn't he? It's what he had been doing for almost forty years before she came along, after all. And hadn't he and John somehow soldiered on without her for the past (how many?) months?

He suppressed a yelp as his bandaged hand finally emerged from the end of the sleeve. No time to sit and feel sorry for himself; there was work to be done. Now to get up. Yes, simply. . . put his legs under himself and stand. One foot—good, now the other. And then push up on the mattress—no, not with the right hand, ouch. He tucked the right hand up against his chest and tried to push himself off the mattress with the left only, but only managed to overbalance himself and flop back down gracelessly onto the mattress, which gave an indignant-sounding squeak.

Mary came back in at that point, just in time to witness the aftermath of his fall, as he squirmed about, trying to regain a sitting position without touching anything with his right hand.

"Here, Sherlock, let me—"

"No, I've got it," he cut her off brusquely. "Just about got it."

So she just stepped back and folded her arms and waited, eyebrows raised, while he flailed and flopped about, until he finally managed to get his feet under himself and gain a standing position. At that point, he was so dizzy from the exertion that he nearly toppled over again until Mary finally grabbed his arm with a sigh.

"Right, so you've got it then," she said drily. "Ok, off we pop." And she marched him out the door and down the hall where four flights of stairs awaited them. Sherlock felt his throat constrict at the thought.

"Couldn't have chosen a flat on the first floor, could you?" he grumbled under his breath. He was almost positive the inhaler was still in his left pocket, but he couldn't help but pat the coat to double-check. Yes, there was the comforting bulge. He didn't need it yet, but it was good to know it was waiting for him just in case.

"I hadn't the foresight to know you'd develop asthma and get yourself beat up by Deirdre on your way to see me, so sorry," Mary snarked, but she slipped in a little closer and slid an arm around his waist to support him as they started down the stairs, which was good, because he was feeling a distinct lack of ability to keep his balance. Despite her small size, her grip was strong, and he found himself leaning into her support. He'd never admit it, but he felt his eyes well up and had to swallow past a sizable lump in his throat. Mary was alive! And she was coming home! John would be so happy!

By the time they got down the stairs and made it to the front of the building, Sherlock's face was dripping with sweat and his legs were shaking. Mary just rolled her eyes as she poured him into the passenger seat of the car. The leather seat cover felt so delightfully cool that he immediately leaned his cheek against it and closed his eyes. Lovely. Just ducky.

Mary was taking quite a long time closing the door, but he hadn't the energy to wonder why, until he felt her hand against his forehead, brushing back his sweaty fringe. Before, her touch had been clinical, efficient. Now, it was a gentle caress. That felt lovely too. Soothing. Yes, Mary would come home, and everything would come out right, and Gracie would have her mummy, and they would all be one happy family again.

Just the small matter of one more trained assassin to deal with. Perhaps Mary could give him a run for his money as far as having a terrible brother was concerned, he thought fuzzily as he drifted off to sleep.

 


	22. Anxiety

Sherlock didn't wake until they were on the ferry, and then it took him a second or two to remember where he was and what had happened. Mary! Mary was alive! He turned his head to the right to find her still sitting in the driver's seat with her head bent forward, looking down at her phone in her hand. As soon as she noticed he was awake, she quickly tapped the screen and looked up with a guilty start. What had she been doing?

Some sound had awakened him—some familiar sound—and now he realized what it was: Gracie giggling, and John's encouraging voice. That wasn't Mary's phone in her hand, it was his, and she was watching the video he had shot of Gracie learning to crawl. Sherlock's stomach gave a sudden lurch at the realization. Mary had missed  _everything_.

Mary's hand came up and quickly wiped her face, and then she simply held out the phone to him without making eye contact. "Sorry," she said breezily.

Slowly Sherlock reached across with his left hand and took the phone. Supporting it with his useless right hand, he swiped the screen until he found the folder of photos and videos of Gracie. Then he dropped the phone back into Mary's lap and closed his eyes again.

"You don't mind?" came Mary's surprised voice.

"Of course not," he grumbled. "She's your baby."

There was a long pause. When he opened one eye to see what Mary was up to, he found her grinning fondly at him. Hmpf. Ridiculous sentiment. But he couldn't help the little grin that tugged at his mouth in response.

* * *

Sherlock found himself awakened again, just outside of Antwerp judging by the street signs, by Mary's voice calling "Sherlock!"

"Hmm? What?" he said fuzzily. It was dark out, and raining, and Sherlock had no idea what time it was.

"You've been sleeping for ages. Time to wake up. I need you to drive for a bit. I'm falling asleep at the wheel."

"Oh, right," he agreed, as Mary was already steering the car over onto the verge. She got out and circled round the car to the passenger seat while he clambered awkwardly over into the driver's seat, carefully avoiding putting any pressure on his right hand.

"We need to talk about what will happen when we get back to London," Mary said briskly.

"Right. What day is it again?"

"Saturday morning—well, nearly morning anyway. About three am. We should get into London around 7:30."

"Well then," Sherlock said lightly as he pulled back into traffic. "Fancy popping 'round for brekkie?"

"I don't think it will be that easy, Sherlock," Mary said in her serious voice, the one that had always made John sit up a bit straighter. What was she on about? Of course it would be that easy. John may be upset, but he would get over it.

"John forgave me; I'm sure he will forgive you too."

"I seem to recall him breaking your nose."

Oh, yes, there was that. But John wouldn't do that to Mary. He didn't hit women, ever, even if they hit him first. "He'll be happy to see you, Mary. I'm sure of it."

"If you say so," she said, but she didn't sound convinced. "We've still the little matter of my brother to deal with. I'm sure he's figured out I'm alive. He'll be expecting me."

"True. Do you mind if I kill him?"

"You?" Mary said incredulously. "You couldn't even take out Deirdre, and that was with two functioning hands."

Sherlock supposed that was fair. "I'd have more of a chance if you'd give me the gun back."

"I already did. It's in your coat pocket. And you'd be doing me a favour if you killed him, honestly." Mary said evenly. She leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes. Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the road, but he was watching her out of the corner of his eye. Her face was pale, with a reddish splotch in the centre of each cheek. Lips pressed tightly together. Breathing irregular. Rapid pulse visible at her exposed throat. Mary was much more anxious than she let on, which led Sherlock to some uncomfortable deductions regarding her brother.

"I see. So shall we go into Baker Street together then? He's sure to come out of hiding if you turn up."

Mary's mouth twisted. "You'd use me as bait?" she said mildly, without opening her eyes.

"Of course. It only makes sense."

"Yes, naturally, but this early in the morning John and Gracie are likely to be home. I've put them in enough danger as it is."

"Mycroft can put them up in one of his safehouses."

"How are you going to arrange that, since we can't be sure about your phone? Or his either, for that matter," Mary argued without opening her eyes.

"I don't need to call Mycroft. I know where the safehouses are and I can pick locks."

Mary's lip lifted in a half-grin. "Of course you can. Yes, all right, if you think you can get them there without Abbi catching on."

"I'm sure I can. As soon as I'm sure they're safe, I'll text you and you can come up to the flat. We'll contact Abbi to arrange a meeting."

"He's likely to be watching the flat. If I turn up there, it's possible he'll come to me."

"Then we'll have to be ready for him."

Mary yawned and settled down lower into the seat, obviously searching for a comfortable way to lean on the window without straining her neck. "Once the flat is clear, text me and I'll come up," she said sleepily. "I've put my number in your phone, under Sunny."

"Good. Once we catch up with him, whichever of us has the shot will take it." Sherlock intended to be in that position if at all possible. Mary shouldn't have to shoot her own brother.

"Right. Good." Eyes still closed, she patted him absently on the knee. "Good plan, Sherlock."

"And then we'll fetch John and tell him the happy news. I'm sure he'll be delighted. And of course, Gracie will. . ." Sherlock trailed off when he realized Mary was asleep already, with her slack hand still resting lightly against the side of his knee. Even in sleep her face was creased with worry lines. Corrugator Supercili. Depressor anguli oris. ". . . Gracie will be so happy to have her mummy back," he finished quietly.

* * *

Mary didn't even wake up when they drove onto the train for the chunnel. Sherlock finally woke her just before they reached London so that she could drive the rest of the way. As soon as she sat up and saw where they were, her entire demeanor changed. Her back straightened, masseter muscle tensed in obvious anxiety. When they switched places, her fingers drummed repeatedly against the steering wheel in a staccato beat. Sherlock kept opening his mouth to reassure her, but just as quickly shut it again without speaking when he realized all of his platitudes were useless. Nothing he said would make a bit of difference in this situation, which gave him an unfamiliar helpless feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Two blocks from Baker Street, Mary abruptly pulled off the road and sat silently with her hands clenched on the steering wheel until her knuckles went white.

"Right, so. . . I'm to text you once I've got John and Gracie somewhere safe," Sherlock said, chewing on the inside of his lip while watching her. Some of her obvious anxiety was rubbing off on him. Not good.

"Yes." Mary responded shortly.

"Then we'll contact Abbi and arrange to meet him."

"Yes."

"Provided he doesn't come to us, where shall we ask to meet him?"

"I was thinking Lienster Gardens. Plenty of places to lie in wait."

"Right." He sat in silence for nearly another minute, looking out the windscreen at the leaden sky, concentrating on drawing oxygen into his lungs without wheezing, while Mary ground her teeth and picked at a loose bit of vinyl on the steering wheel.

"Right. I'm off." With that, he pushed open the door and worked his way out of the seat without putting pressure on his right hand, which still throbbed in pain with every heartbeat. John could fix it up for him, once this mess was all put right. That was a comforting thought indeed. John and Mary happily back together again, Gracie with a mummy. A niggling bit of doubt in the back of his mind warned him that perhaps it wouldn't be that easy, but he deliberately set those thoughts aside. It would work out. It had to. Anything less was unacceptable.

By the time he had hoofed it the two long blocks to 221 Baker Street, his lungs were protesting and demanding a break. As he leaned forward with his hands on his knees while he convinced them otherwise, he scanned the street for the security man he had asked Mycroft to put on John, but saw nothing. Had Mycroft ignored his request (likely), or had John caught on to him and told him to bugger off (likelier)?

Looking up across the street, he saw that the lights in 221B were off and the curtains were closed, which could either mean that John was out, or that he was still sleeping. Sherlock's bet was on the latter—lately John seemed to have lost his habit of rising early, and it would be unusual for him to be out the door before eight, especially since it was Saturday and he didn't have work.

He finally gave in and took a puff in the doorway of 221, then another until he could get a full breath again. Much better. On his way up the stairs, Sherlock ran through a few options for what to tell John to get him out the door. There was always the truth, of course, but he discarded that notion immediately. There would be time for the truth later. Springing it on John when he was half-asleep and in a hurry would likely backfire. No, it would be better to simply suggest that Gracie might be in danger in Baker Street, and John would quickly cooperate.

With that in mind, he stepped briskly into the flat and headed straight for the kitchen hallway, only to stop dead when he felt the cold metal of a gun muzzle against the back of his neck.

"Hello, Sherlock Holmes," said a man's voice in his ear. Gruff tone, Swedish accent. Abbi. Sherlock hadn't heard a thing, not a footstep, not the creak of the loose floorboard,  _nothing._ That made three times in the last two days that someone had got the drop on him. He was definitely slipping. He had barreled right into the flat without even taking John's gun out of his pocket. Stupid! Stupid! At that point a hand slid into Sherlock's pocket and relieved him of said gun. Bugger!

"Hello, Abbi," Sherlock replied lightly. If Abbi were here, inside the flat, where were John and Gracie? Sherlock found himself hoping fervently that John had heeded his warning and perhaps left early this morning. He fought with his breathing to stay even, but it wasn't working very well. Breathe in (wheeze), breathe out (wheeze).

There was a pause, during which the muzzle of the gun dug into his neck just behind his ear, and then Abbi said, "So you have seen my darling sister then. Where is she?"

Sherlock kept his mouth shut while silently castigating himself for nine kinds of fool. He supposed he could deny having seen Mary, but he knew it would be pointless now.

Behind him, the man heaved a quiet sigh. "I suppose I'll have to call her in myself then." The hand slid into Sherlock's left coat pocket again. He could feel the fingers rummaging around, and then the hand withdrew and a dummy went sailing across the room, followed in short order by his inhaler. Abbi swore under his breath in Swedish and reached around into the other pocket, where he came up with Sherlock's phone. Sherlock moved his head a fraction to try to see what he was doing, causing Abbi to push the muzzle of the gun (Beretta M9A3, he noted) against his cheek with a tutting sound.

"Hmm, let's see," the man said, swiping his thumb over the screen of Sherlock's phone. "My dear sister wouldn't be in your contacts under her own name, obviously. . ." There was a brief pause, during which time Sherlock contemplated attempting to ram his elbow into Abbi's sternum. But he could see out of the corner of his eye that the man's finger was resting lightly on the trigger, ready to fire. Too risky. He didn't want John to come home to find his brains splattered all over the walls of the flat. Better to bide his time.

"Ah, here we are. Sunny. She and Stella thought they were so clever. Star and Sun." Abbi's thumb moved over the screen briefly, then he stuffed the phone into his own pocket. "Now we wait, eh? Shouldn't be too long. She's a quick one, my sister. Please, turn around."

"No, thank you."

"I must insist." He tugged on Sherlock's arm until he was turned facing the door, with Abbi behind him. On the way, Sherlock caught a glimpse of the bedroom through the kitchen, just enough to make out that the door was open and the bed was unmade; no noise or sign of movement, so either John was out, or he and Gracie were already. . . no, don't think about that, he warned himself sharply. Such thoughts were incompatible with breathing.

"Much better," Abbi said once they were in position. "You make a lovely shield."

"I wouldn't count on Mary not shooting through me to get to you, you know."

"She would, at that, wouldn't she?" Abbi chuckled unpleasantly. "She's quite ruthless."

"Apparently it runs in the family. You didn't hesitate to kill Stella when she threatened to leave you, and you would have happily killed John if you thought it would get Mary back."

"She took that risk when she became involved with him," Abbi said coldly. "It would be her own fault."

Sherlock heard a familiar purr of a high-end car come to a stop outside of the flat, which meant that Mary had apparently taken the bait. He raised his voice a bit to cover the sound. "Hardly, but what I think isn't important to you, is it?"

"On the contrary, I'd love to hear exactly what the great Sherlock Holmes thinks of me. Do go on."

Sherlock began talking quickly, to keep Abbi's attention so he wouldn't notice the sound of the downstairs door opening. "Not that I think you give a toss about my opinion, but I'll give it just the same. I fancy myself a sociopath, but you truly are one. You believe you own Mary." Sherlock winced at the slight creak of the third stair, but kept talking in hopes that Abbi wouldn't hear it. "You practically raised her after your parents died, didn't you? You trained her and brought her into your little murdering business. She should have been grateful, but instead she left you, so you decided to get her back, and what better way than to dig up dirt on her beloved husband, the man you believed stole her from you. He hadn't actually done anything wrong, but you didn't let the facts stop you from smearing his good name and blackmailing your own sister. You want to know what I think of you? I think you are a worm, not even worthy of being called a man."

Sherlock felt Abbi's fingers tighten around his arm and the other hand pressed the gun more firmly against Sherlock's injured jaw. In his head, Sherlock counted off twenty-seven agonizing seconds, and then finally Abbi chuckled. "You're a clever one, aren't you? Trying to distract me so I won't notice that Niki is hiding behind the door, waiting for the opening to shoot. Come on out, sister dear."

There was a long pause. Sherlock knew Mary had to be standing just behind the door frame, but she didn't show herself. Stay hidden, Sherlock begged her silently. Don't come back from the dead only to die again, this time for real.

"Oh, come now, Niki. Let's not play these games." Abbi's voice was still light, almost playful.

Still no response from Mary, not a sound, not a movement.

The playfulness dropped and Abbi's voice hardened. "You have five seconds before I shoot him in the head. Five."

Nothing.

"Four. You know I'm not bluffing." The barrel of the gun pressed hard against the bruise on Sherlock's jaw. A small part of his brain, the one that he kept carefully under wraps, notified him that it hurt. Shut up, he told himself.

Nothing.

"Three."

Nothing. Sherlock was starting to sweat now under his heavy coat. Perhaps Mary was going to simply wait until Abbi had killed him, then swoop in with her guns blazing after her brother no longer had a hostage.

"Two."

Still nothing.

"One."

 


	23. Anger, take 3

"Let him go, Abbi," came Mary's voice suddenly, far too calm for the situation. "I'm the one you want."

"Ah, Niki. Still so soft-hearted. Come on out and show yourself, then," Abbi said in a playful tone. There was a brief pause, during which Abbi's fingers tightened painfully around Sherlock's jaw, and then Mary stepped around the corner into the doorframe, gun clenched in her outstretched hands. Her finger rested on the trigger guard rather than the trigger itself. Not ready to shoot her brother, obviously, although she would clearly have to if they were to both survive this incident. Even though her face was in shadow, Sherlock could see it well enough to make out her deeply lined brow and tense, pressed together lips.

"There we are," Abbi said. "I knew you'd come back, Niki. You couldn't stay away forever."

"Where are John and Gracie?" Mary asked tightly. Her right hand wrapped more securely around her left, and her finger slipped from the trigger guard onto the trigger itself.

"I was about to ask you that same question," Abbi replied, and Sherlock almost sagged against the man in relief. A sharp jab to the jaw forced him upright again.

"I don't know where they are then."

"Ah. Well, then, you've still got time to go with me before he finds you alive. Leave him to his comfortable little life."

"You may as well give it up, Abbi. Your network is gone. I killed Dierdre. Put a bullet in her forehead."

Abbi scoffed. "I'm well rid of her. She had outlived her usefulness anyway. You saved me the trouble of killing her."

"You're completely heartless."

"That's why we worked so well together, Niki dear. Now that I have you back, we'll be back to how we started out, just you and me. Albinsson and Albinsson, just like our early days."

"You can't imagine I'd ever join you again," Mary choked out in a strangled voice. "You killed Stella." Her eyes were dry, but the sound of her stuttering breathing filled the flat.

"Stella. . . She was so surprised to see me at the door instead of you." Abbi chuckled dryly in Sherlock's ear. "Her neck made a little crunching sound when it snapped."

"She was my  _friend_." Mary's voice broke. A tear splashed down her cheek, but she didn't move to wipe it away. Both hands still held the gun steady.

"She was going to leave me, Niki," Abbi's voice had turned strained too. "Surely you understand why I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't lose her like I lost you."

"No, I don't understand that, and I never will."

Abbi huffed, his breath ruffling the hair at Sherlock's neck. "Why did you leave me, Niki? You belong to me, don't you see that?" When Mary didn't respond, he continued in a scornful voice. "Your precious John doesn't care about you obviously. He's moved on with this  _fikus_."

Mary shook her head. "Sherlock is my friend too. He's not—"

"So you don't want me to have to hurt him, do you?" Abbi interrupted. "If you come with me, he can live. John can live. Your daughter can grow up happy and healthy. She's better off without you."

Mary's mentalis muscle contracted, pulling her chin up. Her eyes flicked to the side. Before, her face had been grimly determined, but now, she looked conflicted. Torn. Her finger slid back from the trigger onto the trigger guard, and the gun tipped down, no longer aimed directly at their heads.

"Mary, Please," Sherlock blurted out, ignoring the muzzle of the gun which pressed into the flesh under his jawbone. "Gracie needs you. Don't—"

Suddenly he was interrupted by the sound of shattering glass along with the crack of a gunshot. Instinctively he ducked, arms flying up to protect his head, just as the fingers that had gripped his neck loosened and Abbi fell heavily to the floor, taking Sherlock with him. The gun fell from his hand, and Sherlock scooped it up as he rolled back up to his feet. He landed in a crouch, gun clutched in his trembling left hand pointed at the man on the floor, only to discover he was no longer a threat, given that his eyes were open and staring, and he had a neat hole in his temple. How on earth had Mary done that? He had seen no muzzle flash.

Adjusting his grip on the gun, he took a quick glance around. The first thing he noticed was that the window in the sitting room was shattered, but the shot must have come from the outside, as the bits of broken glass were scattered on the floor under the window frame.

Turning his head further, the second thing he noticed was that Mary had vanished from her spot near the door. And then he didn't have time to notice anything further because he heard the the downstairs door bang open, a familiar wail and then footsteps pounding up the stairs. John appeared in the doorway that Mary had just vacated, breathing hard, Gracie (red-faced and screaming) tucked in his left arm, and an unfamiliar Glock pistol in his right hand.

"Sherlock, what the hell?!" John cried, dashing into the room. He tucked the gun into the pocket of his jacket and quickly hurried around Sherlock to the man on the floor, where he crouched down and felt for a pulse. Gracie, who had gone quiet, clutched tightly to the front of John's jacket and peered owlishly over his shoulder at Sherlock.

Sherlock sat down with the gun hanging loosely from his hand and just blinked at the empty door frame. "Um. . ."

John's legs and Gracie's dangling foot appeared in his field of vision. "Sherlock! Are you all right? Were you hit?"

"No. . ."

John crouched in front of him. "What happened to your face?" His warm hand caught Sherlock's chin and forced him to turn his head to the side, where he inspected the bruise with narrowed eyes. His thumb brushed over the bandage at Sherlock's temple.

"Had a bit of a run-in with a. . . pistol," Sherlock managed to stay. Where the hell had Mary disappeared to? She couldn't have gone downstairs or she would have run straight into John coming up. That only left one place she could be hiding. . .

"Who is this man and why was he holding you at gunpoint?"

"Um. . ." Sherlock chewed on the inside of his cheek while his mind cast about for ideas of how to explain this, since it appeared unlikely Mary was going to show up and bail him out. "It was for a case," he finished lamely.

John sat back on his heels and glared at him suspiciously, his gaze traveling down from Sherlock's bruised face to his bandaged hand and back. "You take off for two days without even telling me where you're going," he started in. "And then you ring me up and give me a cryptic warning over what I assume must have been a bugged line." John's voice cranked up a notch. "I clear out of here, and when I return, I find you all beat to hell and a man holding a gun to your head. I think I deserve to know why."

"It's not important," Sherlock said shortly while shoving the Beretta into his pocket and attempting to get his legs under himself.

"No? I think—"

"No, John, what's important right now is that the police are likely to come knocking any minute, and we've got some tidying up to do before they arrive."

Ignoring John's outstretched hand, Sherlock struggled to his feet and strode over to the body on the floor. A bright, viscous pool of blood surrounded his head, so Sherlock stepped around it and started searching the coat pockets for his belongings.

"Here," he said briskly, holding out the Sig Sauer toward John, who was still standing by the door glaring at him with his lips pressed firmly together. John was angry, he knew, but he would have to deal with that later, along with a load of other unpleasantness. Right now time was of the essence.

"John, take it," Sherlock hissed impatiently. "Go and hide it along with that Glock you've dug up god knows where. There's a loose floorboard at the foot of the bed."

After another moment, John finally said grimly, "All right. But we will talk later," accepted the gun and headed off toward the bedroom with Gracie bouncing on his hip. Thank god for small favors. Moving as quickly as possible, Sherlock awkwardly wiped the Beretta on his shirt and shoved the pistol back into Abbi's hand, wrapping his limp fingers around the grip.

He heard the sound of John washing his hands in the bathroom (that's a good lad). He had just returned to the sitting room when they heard a loud knock at the open front door, and then Lestrade's shout, "Oy, Holmes! You in there?"

John emerged from the bathroom with Gracie clinging to his shoulder like a monkey and raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who caught him by the arm and said quietly into his ear, "We both just arrived home to find the man dead. We don't know who he is or what happened to him."

John let out a sharp breath through his nose. "Yes, all right."

"Good." He took Gracie from John's arms and dropped onto the sofa with her. "Now go and answer the door."

John gave him a sour look, but trotted off down the stairs without objection, thankfully. Now if he could just keep the police from going up to his bedroom during their investigation, they would be in the clear.

He heard John saying "Morning, Inspector", and then Lestrade's voice. "Got a report of a gunshot at this location. You lot all right?"

"Yes, we're fine. Just got home to find a dead man in my sitting room."

"Yeah?" A number of booted feet tromped up the stairs, and then John reappeared with Lestrade, trailed by Donovan and a couple of uniformed officers who Sherlock vaguely recognized but couldn't name.

"Oy, 'olmes, what happened to you?" Donovan said in an irritated sort of voice, as if he might have injured himself just to spite her.

"Tragic polo accident, I'm afraid," Sherlock said, lip curled dismissively. "Took a putter right to the face."

"They don't use—" Donovan started, but Lestrade interrupted her.

"Let's get this scene secured. You three—" he pointed at Sherlock, John and Gracie "—go on and sit on the steps while we have a look around. I'll come out and ask you a few questions in a moment."

If Lestrade was surprised when Sherlock just shrugged and said "Come along, John," he recovered quickly and started issuing orders while Sherlock towed John out the door. He sat Gracie on his knee and pulled John down beside him on the second step of the stairs that led up to his bedroom, effectively blocking them from any officers who might want to search the upper level.

They all, even Gracie, sat in tense silence while police officers and criminologists and forensics specialists trooped up and down the stairs, stringing crime scene tape, dusting for prints (pointless, Sherlock thought, as there were bound to be so many they hadn't a prayer of finding anything clear enough to be useful), and generally making a nuisance of themselves.

John's shoulder that rested against Sherlock's was tight and his face set. Sherlock could almost hear the wheels cranking in his little brain, but to his credit, he said nothing.

Finally Donovan came out, looking frankly ridiculous in her oversized white coverall and shower cap, with her little notebook in hand to "take their statement." This only took a moment because they both simply repeated what John had already told her: they had been out (to breakfast at Wenzels, Sherlock added), and as they were walking down the street they had heard a gunshot. When they entered the flat they had found the man dead. No, they hadn't noticed the broken window, and they didn't know who the man was or how he had come to be in their flat or who might have shot him.

"What about Mrs Hudson?"

Sherlock was about to plead ignorance, as he truly didn't know where Mrs Hudson might have gone, when John said, "She went to visit her sister." A quick glance at John out of the side of his eye confirmed that this was true, in which case Sherlock thought it likely that John had arranged the trip to get her out of danger. How useful. Sherlock was going to miss that once John moved back in with Mary.

"Sherlock was only joking about the polo," John said helpfully. "He didn't want to admit he fell down the stairs."

"Or perhaps I'm covering for John beating me," Sherlock put in drily. Donovan flashed him a calculating look, as if she were wondering if he might be serious, before rolling her eyes and snapping the notebook shut.

"Whatever. We're nearly done here. If you think of anything else, call the Inspector."

She stepped back, nearly into their laps, to make way for the forensics team who were carrying out a lumpy white bodybag. As they went bumping down the stairs with it, Lestrade followed them out, pulling off his protective cap.

"Neither of you know this bloke, eh?" he asked while folding up the cap and tucking it into an evidence bag.

"Afraid I've never met him before," Sherlock answered immediately. "Sorry we can't be more help."

For a few seconds, Lestrade stood and looked them both up and down, with his jaw twisted and his tongue pushed into his cheek. Sherlock could feel the skepticism rolling off him, but he finally just grunted "huh," and headed off down the stairs after his team.

As soon as the front door shut, John took Gracie and sprang to his feet. He stood for a moment breathing heavily; Sherlock could feel his gaze like laser beams aimed at the top of his scalp. Finally Sherlock raised his head and made tentative eye contact. Orbicularis Oculi and Orbicularis Oris contracted. Nasalis muscle flaring the nostrils. Oh, John was  _furious_.

"Go," John said simply, pointing through the open door to the sitting room. Right. They were going to do this now. Best get it over with.

Sherlock pushed himself carefully off the stair and stepped into the sitting room, stopping next to the coffee table with his back to the door. How to begin? Several flippant comments came to mind, but he immediately vetoed them all. Using levity in the presence of Furious John led to broken noses.

John brushed past him and stopped next to his chair, with Gracie clutched in his arms. Sherlock silently counted off eighteen seconds before John said, "All right, out with it."

Sherlock shifted his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"Maybe you could start with telling me why I've just lied to the police."

Sherlock couldn't think of a way to phrase his answer that wouldn't make the situation worse, so he chewed his lip and said nothing while he frantically tried to formulate his thoughts. The plan had been for him to be the one to break the news to John, but now that it was actually time to do just that, words failed him. Anything he could think of (Guess what, John? Mary's alive! Isn't that grand?!) revealed itself to be not only inadequate but completely inappropriate.

"Who was that man?"

Ah, that question he could answer, in a vague sort of way. "A cold-blooded killer. You did the right thing by shooting him."

"Sherlock, what the hell is going on? My daughter and I could have been killed!" John's voice caught on the last bit of that sentence.

"Please, John, don't be angry—"

"And what happened to you? How did you hurt your—" John suddenly broke off. His face, which had been reddened with anger, turned pale, and every muscle went completely still.

"John. . ." Suddenly Sherlock realized that John was no longer looking at him, but rather his gaze had shifted to something behind Sherlock's shoulder. No, some _one_. A quick glance back confirmed that Mary was standing in the doorway, hands folded and tears pooling in her eyes, which were fixed on Gracie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, no funeral! Aren't you glad? Just one more chapter to go, will probably post it tomorrow. In the meantime, I'd love some comments.


	24. Acceptance

John's breathing had gone sharp and fast. His jaw worked silently for a moment, then he said in a quiet voice, "I might have known."

Sherlock raised his hands placatingly, "Now John—"

"I should have known," John repeated scornfully, his voice rising in pitch and intensity. "I should have known. The two of you—"

"Sherlock didn't know," Mary interrupted. She was still staring longingly at Gracie, who watched her warily. When Mary took a step forward, Gracie grabbed a tiny fistful of John's shirt and tucked her face in against his collar.

"Well, not at first, but I did suspect—" he began, but Mary cut him off.

"He didn't know," Mary said firmly. "I promise you." She took another step toward Gracie, who began to whimper.

"You should understand that your promises mean little to me at this point," John said tersely. Gracie's face screwed up, and her whimpering turned to a thin wail as she apparently picked up on her father's mood.

Sherlock looked back and forth between John and Mary anxiously. This wasn't going nearly as well as he had hoped. He had known John would be angry; he hadn't expected him to be. . . contemptuous.

"John. . ." he started, but broke off when John suddenly put Gracie into his arms and pointed toward the doorway.

"But John—"

"Just go upstairs and wait, all right?"

"Oh. Erm. . . yes. Right."

Mary, eyes still fastened on Gracie's back, stepped to the side to let them pass. She didn't make eye contact, but Sherlock could see the pulse jumping at her throat.

Sherlock climbed slowly up the stairs, listening as he went, but he heard nothing, not even a whisper. They were obviously waiting for him to be out of range before starting their row. Or maybe there wouldn't be a row. John would simply point to the door and order Mary out without a word, and she would go just as silently. He thought he would rather prefer the shouting.

When he reached his bedroom, Sherlock sat down on his bed with Gracie, who had stopped wailing but still sniffled piteously, on his lap. Even in the quiet, he still could hear no sounds coming from downstairs. He expected that from up here he would at least be able to hear the intonation patterns, particularly if they were shouting. The absence of voices was worrisome. Perhaps they had skipped the fight and gone straight to snogging? Unlikely, but what did he know of how married people behaved?

If John and Mary reconciled (if? WHEN!), then John and Gracie would move out. Mycroft could fix everything for her, seeing as he owed her for saving his life not once, but at least twice. Sherlock could have the downstairs bedroom back. No more slogging up the extra fifteen steps several times a day. No more soggy risotto and burnt fettuccine alfredo. No more pockets full of dummies and baby toys. . . Gracie's thumb slipped into her mouth and her arm wound itself around Sherlock's neck, where her fingers twisted into the curls at his nape. Her body was so light, barely a feather, and her limbs suddenly seemed so fragile, so perfect, so defenceless. His throat tightened at the thought of losing her. John and his "real" family would move out and he would be alone again.

Or perhaps not. Suddenly the sound of voices floated up through the floorboards: not shouting, but tense. First Mary's, then John's immediately following. He couldn't make out John's words, only his tone, which was quietly furious. Sherlock's anxiety spiked and he found his breath coming quicker. What were they saying? He had to know!

Very quietly he slipped off his shoes and crept out to the stairs, where he sat on the top step with Gracie on his lap. Her face tucked in against his chest, arm still wound around his neck. She had gone unnaturally quiet and still. From here, he could make out most of the words, John's better than Mary's, which were quieter although no less tense.

"Who knew about this?" John asked sharply. "Who did you tell instead of me?"

"Sherlock didn't know." Mary answered immediately. "I didn't—"

"What about Mycroft?"

"He may have guessed. . . I sent him an anonymous. . . trying to kill him."

"And then you let me think you were leaving me. Do you know what that did to me?" John spat, his voice filled with venom.

"I'm so sorry, John. I did what I had to . . . you and Gracie," came Mary's pleading voice.

"Who was he?" John said tightly. "Who did I just kill?"

"My brother," she replied evenly.

There was silence for a moment while John apparently digested this bit of information.

"He was my handler. . . . blackmailing me to try to get me to . . ."

"Why didn't you come to me, Mary? I could have explained that photo." John's voice was sharp as a knife.

"I knew you hadn't been involved in a. . . but it didn't matter. . . He would have found some way to twist it. . . he wouldn't stop."

"I could have helped you, Mary. Why don't you trust me?"

"I do, John!" Mary cried in an anguished voice. "I love you and Gracie more than life itself! Everything I did was to protect the two of you!"

"I loved you too." Despite the words, John's tone was still hard, bitter. Sherlock felt his stomach clench at the use of the past tense. Breathe in (wheeze). Breathe out (wheeze). Absently pat Gracie on the back while remembering his inhaler was still in the corner of the sitting room somewhere. Damn.

"Can't that make it all right?" Mary asked in a broken voice.

"It's not all right, Mary. What you did is not all right."

Sherlock felt his arms tighten around Gracie's fragile back. Her thumb was still in her mouth, but she wasn't sucking it anymore. With her ear against his chest, she must be able to hear the pounding of his heart. He felt. . . how did he feel? Molly would tell him that he needed to put it in words, but he didn't think there were words that could capture the turmoil in his heart. Breathe in (wheeze), Breathe out (wheeze), with the air squeezing past the solid lump in his throat.

Sherlock's next breath broke with a sob. No no no! He needed to be quiet so he could hear what they were saying. He pressed his lips hard together and buried his face in Gracie's strawberry curls.

After a moment, he realized that the voice downstairs had stopped. He lifted his head and looked down the stairs, to find both John and Mary standing in the doorway, pale faces turned up toward him, Mary's hand over her mouth and John's arms tightly folded. Oh, they must have heard him. Not good.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock gasped around the lump in his throat. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

With a glance at John, Mary started up the stairs. Gracie, who had been snuggled in against him, pulled back and craned her body around to see what was going on. As soon as she spotted Mary, she began to bounce energetically up and down, babbling "muhmuhmuhmuh."

Mary stopped three steps down, her face hopeful but guarded, as if approaching a wild animal that may bolt. Gracie watched her with bright eyes, and then suddenly her arms flung out, fingers opening and closing in a "gimme" motion. Sherlock heaved himself up off the stair and closed the distance between them to push Gracie awkwardly into Mary's arms, where she stared silently into her mother's face with her mouth open in a little o.

Mary's eyes filled up, but the corner of her mouth quirked upward, just a little, before she pressed her face in against Gracie's curls and inhaled deeply. And John. . . Sherlock anxiously cut his gaze to John's face and found that his eyes were suspiciously shiny. Did that mean. . .?

A long moment passed where John simply stared at Mary and Gracie, expressionless. Sherlock's heart banged almost painfully against his ribs. A giant hand was squeezing his throat. Breathe in (wheeze). Breathe out (wheeze).

Finally John's face crumpled and he opened his arms. Mary immediately cried "Oh, John!" and moved into them, with a contented-looking Gracie squashed comfortably between them. Sherlock found his view clouded by moisture.

"Lovely," Sherlock intoned, impatiently palming away the tear that overflowed down his cheek. "Now then, your things are mostly in storage as John was too sentimental to bin them. I suppose most of them will—" (pause to muffle cough in sleeve) "fit in here, if you don't mind being a bit squished. This place could do with a woman's touch—"

He felt the firm pressure of John's hand on his shoulder, forcing him to sit, and then John's fingers were against his throat while Mary's encircled his wrist. Right, well, his inhaler was just downstairs. Perhaps one of them could fetch it for him, as he hardly needed two people to take his pulse.

"Nebulizer?" Mary asked in a clinical tone.

John gave a sharp nod. "Yes, nebulizer, definitely." Oh, lovely, now he had two nursemaids.

Both Mary and John turned and headed back down the stairs, with John's hand cupped under Mary's elbow, leaving Sherlock sitting on the top step watching them. Gracie peeked back over Mary's shoulder back at him, grinning toothily.

"Nice shot, by the way," Mary said in an undertone to John, head turned just enough that Sherlock could spot a proud half-smile on her face.

"I learned it from the best," John replied just as quietly.

"Are we all right?"

"No." John sniffed and rubbed at his nose. Sherlock's stomach gave a lurch. "We're not all right. But maybe we will be." His arm slid around Mary's waist, and she moved her head to rest against his shoulder.

Ah, yes, much better.

When they were nearly at the bottom of the stairs, John and Mary both called back at the same time, "Come along, Sherlock."

Sherlock clambered to his feet and struggled down the stairs after them, making liberal use of the handrail for support. Yes, indeed, come along. Mary had his heart in her arms. How could he help but follow?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking with this story all the way to the end! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. I would love it very very much if you could write me a quick comment. They make me very happy!


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